This Vow
by Vanillasiren
Summary: Summary: He thought it was just a bunch of crap – one last line he came up with to manipulate the pretty little doctor into choosing her own death. He was wrong, and she knows it. My take on the Harley/Joker story.
1. Chapter 1

This Vow

Summary: He thought it was just a bunch of crap – one last line he came up with to manipulate the pretty little doctor into choosing her own death. He was wrong, and she knows it. My take on the Harley/Joker story.

*Author's Note: Okay, so I know everyone fangirl and their grandmother is going to take a crack at this pairing, but I thought I'd try and put my own spin on it. Do tell me what you think, dears. *

 _Desire_

 _It feels like flying._

 _Of course, it isn't. She may be going nuts, but she's not stupid. She knows it's falling, but it doesn't feel like that at all. It's like the feeling she gets doing gymnastics – like dancing, like soaring, so confident in her body, so free in her movements, so unrestricted, the way she can never been in her professional life._

 _Not that she's going to have a professional life, after this. Not that she's going to have any life, period. Possibly. Maybe. Probably._

 _The decision to jump was hers. But the decision between her life and her death, that belongs to him._

 _She belongs to him._

 _If he cares to claim her…_

 _He loves me. He loves me not._

 _Would you die for me?_

 _Would you live me?_

 _Yes. Yes._

 _The answer is always yes._

*Session One*

Dr. Harleen Quinzel does not have any illusions that her new job at Arkham is something to be positive about. Maybe in the past, the position would have been coveted. There's certainly been an element of glamour to these super-criminals, especially since some of them are – what is the term they're using now? – meta-humans, or whatever it is. But Arkham is notorious for break outs, riots, and a host of other unpleasant things that have been gruesome enough to make the papers. To say it's a high-risk work environment is something of an understatement; staff have all too often become collateral damage (or outright targets) when such incidents take place. Which is part of the reason why they're willing to overlook in her relative lack of experience working with these particular type of patients, and that … unfortunate incident in New York six months ago that resulted in a temporary suspension of her license. It's also why they're willing to provide her with a substantial compensation package – including help with housing. Hazard pay, she supposes.

It didn't take her long to decide. What was left for her in New York? Yes, the suspension had been lifted, but her professional reputation, so carefully crafted, was in shambles. Her only small comfort was that while the incident had made local news, it hadn't been covered nationally, and while she was sure the Arkham board had done a cursory investigation into her past actions, she doubted they bothered to learn the details. So while she didn't approach the job at Arkham with any measure of enthusiasm, she did confront it with a sort of grim determination.

To say nothing of working a possible angle…

Well, and why shouldn't she? God knows she'd put her in time, she'd done the compassionate care bit, and look where that had landed her. Publishing a few case studies, may even writing a book (which, if her stories were sensationalist enough, might get a shot at being read outside academia), and then living off the royalties… It didn't sound so bad. Her passion for psychiatry, for helping people, had considerably dimmed, and despite what people would think later, she didn't have any delusions about "curing" anyone. The best she could muster at the time was an interest in understanding how the criminal mind worked.

There was of course, that one particular mind, the mind behind that unnerving rictus grin, that changed everything.

She didn't request to work with him. Everyone seems to think she did – they think she was hooked from the start – but they know fuck-all about what happened to her anyway. The truth is, she was assigned to him, because, after his latest escapades had landed him back in a padded cell, courtesy of the self-appointed guardian of Gotham, his psychiatric treatment plan had been boiled down to "throw shit at the wall and see if anything sticks." Her superior, Dr. Arkham himself, had taken a few runs at him, as had her colleague, Dr. Joan Leland, as had several other psychiatrists, psychologists, counselors, and therapists, over the years, and now, as the new shrink on the block, it was her turn. He was nothing special to her, not then.

Not yet.

Though, in all fairness, it would be wrong to say she didn't experience a certain excitement about taking a crack at him. Even with her flagging enthusiasm for her chosen field, the Joker was clinically fascinating. So she got her access to his previous files, and poured over the notes, watched footage of his more prominent criminal activities, gotten a sense about what might be in his particular bag of tricks. She also looked over his past diagnoses that had been tried on for size, the most common ones being schizophrenia and sociopathy. She found the former reductive, and that latter and oversimplification, but the most likely to be accurate. She knew about sociopaths – she'd met only one, but that was more than enough – so she felt she was as ready as she could be.

It took three months to set up a session. They had him on heavy sedatives, which seemed to have little effect. Though he didn't say anything when she entered the room, didn't flash his trademark, disturbing smile, his eyes did meet hers briefly, and he knew he was taking stock of her, making his own observations. She let him do so, wearing what she hoped was an impassive expression.

"Hello," she said in a voice that was calmer than she felt. Her heart was beating fast. A curious mixture of excitement and fear coursed through her. He was restrained, of course, but what she'd read told her he was extremely resourceful, and that he would have no qualms about killing her if she stood in his way or even just if the mood struck him.

She was greeted with silence, which was the response she suspected. Whether he was a true sociopath or not, his first goal would be to establish control of the situation, and that would be easy to do if he said nothing while she rambled on.

But she didn't ramble. He wasn't the first patient to give her the silent treatment, and if she thought it was going to bother her, he was sorely mistaken. She met his gaze evenly, looking into his eyes – blue, she noted suddenly – and maintained her composure. She was rewarded when the blood-red lips quirked upwards in a smile. Then a laugh came out, the laugh he was famous for, and while she'd be lying if she said a small shiver didn't run down her spine at that, she played it off as best she could, sitting down and pulling out her notepad.

"I'm Dr. Harleen Quinzel," she said, jotting down something, mostly for the sake of looking busy. "I'll be your psychiatrist for however long you remain here, unless the higher-ups decide otherwise." She glanced up to see if that brought any change in his expression, but his face seemed to be frozen in that unnerving grin. "Our goals during therapy will be to explore what brought you here, and what you can do to – "

"The Bat."

At least he was talking now. "Excuse me?"

"The Bat brought me here, sweetheart. It's where he drops me off after our little play dates." Another laugh. "That's the rhythm to these things, you know."

"Indeed. So you consider Batman … a playmate?" She raised a brow.

A low chuckle. "Yeah …though I do get the sense the feeling's not mutual." A maudlin frown. "But it's just so easy to get a reaction out of him! I mean, all you gotta do is kill a few people, blow up a few buildings, he gets all upset." A cackle. "I enjoy –"

"Mind games, yes," she said, deliberately cutting off. He needed to know who was in control. Maybe the sociopath diagnosis was accurate.

He tutted. "Don't interrupt me, sweetheart."

She set her pen down, leaned in. "I'm not your sweetheart. As I said before, I'm doctor Quinzel. Address me properly or don't do it all." It was risky, she knew. He might react violently. She supposed she was being reckless. A few months ago, she might have cared about being hurt.

But that was before she learned how much damage she could do…

A longer laugh this time, and she let out a breath. "Oooh, I like you."

"Be still my heart."

"Oh come on, it's not fair. I gotta address you all proper, but you haven't even called me by name."

"And what exactly do you preferred to be called? I don't suppose you're finally ready to give us your real name…"

"Not on the first date, sweet… doctor Quinzel." She felt a little thrill of victory at gaining some semblance of respect from him. "You can call me Mister J."

"Fair enough. Mister J, then. So tell me, what do you hope to get out of therapy?"

A mad giggle. "Doc, you can't be serious."

Scribble, scribble. "I usually am."

"More's the pity." He took a deep breath. "I hope to successfully re-integrate my id, ego, and superego in a more cohesive and functional self, ready to take responsibility for my past actions and become a productive member of society."

This time, she had to wait until the laughter died down. "Good one," she said drily.

"Yeesh, doc, you didn't even crack a smile …"

"For the record, I'm not a Freudian."

"The shrink before you was."

"Clearly. Don't worry, I didn't really expect a serious answer, I'm just required to ask." She jotted down more notes. "Speaking of which, do you feel like your current medications have been effective?"

"Effective in what?"

She blinked, faltering a bit for the first time. "In – in managing your symptoms?"

"Oooh, I don't think of them as symptoms…"

"What do you think of them as?"

"Endearing little personality quirks!"

Of course you do. She wrote down _denial_. "Hmm. Except personality quirks don't tend to land people in prison…"

"Don't they?"

She glanced up at him, then underlined denial. "Do you sleep well?"

Another guffaw of laughter. She fought a sudden urge to laugh herself, waiting for him to finish again.

"Do you sleep at all?"

He shrugged, his smile wavering slightly. "Sometimes."

"But not enough." Scribble, scribble. _Insomnia_.

"Didn't say that, doc."

"You didn't have to."

"Sleep's overrated."

"Not in my experience." She jotted down a few more notes. "Unless you object, I'm going to try and get you off all these sedatives, since they seem to have so little impact. I can try prescribing you something just for sleep … if you'd like, that is."

She looked up at him again. His eyes were remarkably blue…

"Nope."

She allowed herself a small smile. "Thought not." He wouldn't take any kind of help for her. Not yet. He wanted to give the impression that he enjoyed his mental state, didn't want anyone to think madness was anything other than his first choice. She made a few more notes. It might take some doing to get him drug-free, but she could always make the argument that he had probably been cheeking his meds anyway, and why waste taxpayer money giving him drugs he was just getting rid of?

"Well, I think we've covered enough ground for a first session."

"You leaving me already, Dr. Quinzel?"

"Afraid so. Until next time, Mr. J."

She signaled the guard, gathered her things, and got up to leave. She was at the door when he called her back, which was hardly unexpected.

"Doc?"

"Mr J.?"

A wide grin. "We're gonna have so much fun. You'll see. I'm gonna make you smile. I'm gonna make you laugh."

Her heart stopped. "Is that a threat?"

"Aww come on, don't take it like that. I just wanna find your long-lost sense of humor."

She rolled her eyes. "Good like with that. Goodnight, Mr. J."

"See you soon, Dr. Quinzel."

When she shut the door, she was shaking. Not really in fear, although there was an element of that, but more in exhilaration. She'd gotten through a session with Arkham's most dangerous patient and lived to tell the tale. Even if she never had another session with him – and she knew that she would – that was something to be proud of.

For the first time in months, she felt something like her old self stirring. Harleen Quinzel was never one to shy away from a challenge. Maybe it wasn't time to cash out. Maybe it was time to make a new name for herself, to do something meaningful, to make headway in understanding a mind none of her colleagues could fathom. It just had to be beautiful in there, beautiful and broken, and she's a girl who's always loved both.

She's going to…

Well, she's going to crack this nut.

Harleen let out a little giggle of her own, ignoring the curious stare of the guard as she walked

away.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Wow, I did not expect so many responses! Thanks everyone so much for your interest in this story. I hope to live up to your expectations. I will try to update every week or at least every other week, but updates make get sporadic during exams – yes, I had the brilliant idea to start this thing the week before I went back to school!

This Vow Part Two

 _Desire_

" _How could you do this?!" She screams at the boy. He's 16, but looks younger. Scrawny, small, wide-eyed._

 _She wants so badly to hurt him._

 _She hadn't realized until now that it was all a façade, it was a look he actively worked on, his smoke screen, his ticket to stay in juvenile court and out of the adult system, where the death penalty might be on the table. She hadn't realized so many things until now. She'd been his advocate, his champion, his doctor, as she'd been to so many children before, never checking her own arrogance and self-righteousness, never stopping to think that this one might be different._

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

 _How could she have been so wrong? How could she have been so completely taken in?_

 _He has no answer for her, except a slow, cold smile. As his mask slips off, and she knows what he is, what he's always been, and what he's gotten away with._

" _Honey, has anyone every told you you're really gullible?"_

 _After that, everything is a blur. A blur of red and cracking bone._

With a groan, Harleen awakens. It's been a while since she had that dream. She knew it was coming – she knew it would come as soon as she starting seeing any patients again – but knowing didn't make it easier. She rolls over and contemplates the alarm clock with bleary eyes. It's 6 AM, an hour earlier than she needs to get up to make it to Arkham.

She knows well enough not to attempt sleep again, and goes for a run, which usually does the trick.

*Session Two*

"Hello again, Mr. J," she says, in the carefully neutral tones she reserves for patients. "Are you feeling any differently since last week?"

He doesn't answer right away. She hopes he will answer, eventually. Although she knows from staff reports that he appears to be calmer, or well, calmer for _him_ , she'd like to hear directly that she's feeling better. She managed to get him off the pills, although it took Dr. Joan Leland to back her up and convince Dr. Arkham. She finds she might rather like Dr. Leland, might be willing to consider her a friend. At the very least, she's welcome as virtually the only other woman in the vaguely misogynistic sausage fest that is Arkham's staff.

"Well, they're not shoving pills done my throat … guess I have you to thank for that, huh, Doc?" His smile is a little less extreme this time, his tone almost light, conversational. Harleen almost allows herself to smile back, but checks herself, and merely nods. As she sits down, she puts her soda can on the table – coffee wasn't cutting it for her caffeine fix today – and his eyes follow the movement of her hand.

It occurs to her that he may be figuring out how he can use it as a weapon.

"Do I get a soda too?"

"Sorry, I just brought the one."

"Mm. That's a touch rude. If I weren't so grateful, I might be offended. Can I at least get a sip?"

"Maybe next time." She takes a sip of her own.

"Grape?"

"Hmm-mm." He grins widely at that, as if he has gathered a vital piece of information on her. She manages to maintain her air of indifference.

"So… what would you like to talk about, Mr. J?"

Oh, she's caught him off guard! She can't help but be pleased at that. Of course, she knows he's going to lead the conversation where he wants it, so she might as well dispense with the pretenses and let him think he's in charge.

"Aren't you supposed to ask me about my childhood or something?"

Unconsciously, she wrinkles her nose. "Well, that depends. Are you going to tell me the same story you told Leland and Arkham? Oh wait, there was some variation ..." She makes a show of flipping through her notes. "Yes … let's see… you told Arkham you saw your father laugh at the circus, and you told Leland it was at the zoo … but both of the stories end the same: you do your prat fall later, he 'doesn't get the joke'... and you get a busted nose." She closes the file. "It's a decent story, I'll give you that."

He chuckles. "Well, I always thought it was good yarn. Of course, I do tend to get fuzzy on the details."

"It is compelling. And I'll allow that it might even be true, on some level."

He tilts his head at her, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in a way that manages to be menacing and endearing at the same time. "Oh, and you don't even feel sorry for me, do you?" He says, in a mock-sad tone.

"I could. I might. For the boy you were, not necessarily the man you've become. And even if it were true, there's children who had endured worse abuse, and they do don't what you did."

"And just what is it, you think I do, Doc?" She starts to answer, but he cuts her off. "I'll tell ya what I do – I have fun! You should try it sometime!"

"I had fun once. It was awful."

He throws his head back and laughs. After he calms down, he looks at her with something like fondness. "I gotta tell ya doc, deadpan is not usually my preferred brand of humor, but you might make me change my mind. I still want to get you to crack a smile, though."

As if in obedience, the corners of her mouth quirk upward, irrepressibly.

"Ooh, Ooh, that counts! – No, no, you don't put your hand in front of your face! I see it – I see it –"

And suddenly, he's up, on his feet, animated, giddy as a child, approaching her. Granted, he's in the straightjacket, but –

Harleen's reflexes kick in. Before he knows what's happening, he's back down in the chair, and she's got her pen pressed to his throat.

"Now remember Mr. J., I am a doctor," she coos in his ear. "Which means I know exactly which artery to jam this into to do the most damage. So if you don't behave…" She lets the sentence trail off, trying not to shake. This is different, this is different than before. This is not an "unprovoked" attack. This will not get back to the Board. She is control. She is.

She _is_.

"Oh honey, I am so turned on right now." He _is_ looking at her with something like adoration…

"That's completely inappropriate, Mr. J."

"You do realize _you're_ the one that's straddling _me_ , right?"

And she is. Harleen flushes a deep red and pulls away from him. At this point, she might prefer being killed. She had only meant to defend herself, and now she's humilitated herself instead.

"You're not supposed to move out of that chair," she mutters as she slinks back to her seat.

"Aww honey, don't look so hangdog. That was bad-ass and sexy. Where'd you learn those moves? Are they teaching the shrinks ju-jitsu these days?"

"If you must know, I've taken self-defense classes since high school." Mommy dearest had paid for them, in that magical in-between time she had felt guilty instead of resentful, and after that, Harley had been old enough to work the crap jobs that would pay for them. "And I'm not your honey. I told you to call me _doctor_ –"

"Look, we'll make it even. You can have a cute nickname for me too!"

Harleen sighed. At some point, she had been in control of this session, hadn't she? For a few minutes at least?

"Really." She didn't bother hiding her annoyance. "And just want what would you like me to call you: honey, sweetie, baby, sweetheart, puddin' –"

"Oh puddin', I like that one, you can call me puddin."

"I'll get right on that, Mr. J."

A low chuckle at that, almost like a purr. Damned if he isn't just as charismatic as he thinks he is. _But then_ , she reminds herself, _most sociopaths are_.

"I just bet you will. I knew you would be fun."

"You're not telling this is what having fun is supposed to be like, is it?"

"You haven't seen fun yet, _Dr. Quinzel_."

Their eyes lock for a long moment, and Harleen takes a deep breath.

"Time's up."

"Miss you already, doc."

The door opens. She gathers her things and turns to leave.

"Oh doc, one more thing." He's calling her back again. This is going to be a thing.

Still, she puts a hand up before the guard steps forward and faces him again.

"I was thinking… about names … pet names … your name…" This is deliberate. He wants to get her flustered again, embarrass her in front of the guard.

Well, it won't work.

"What about my name?" She makes her tone icy.

"Harleen Quinzel. Rework it a bit, and you get Harley Quinn!"

"Like the clown character harlequin from Italian Commedia dell'arte? I know. I've heard it before."

"Then you must know it suits you."

Years later, one night, when they are alone in the dark, half asleep, she will admit it to him, whisper that she felt it then. No, not the love (that would come later), not quite the craving or the _desire_ , but … some piece of herself, falling into place. Some self-imposed limitations beginning to crack. Some darker energy in herself refusing to stay tamped down in the background any longer, some neglected little dancer come tumbling out to play.

"See you next session, Mr. J."

"See you next session, doc."


	3. Chapter 3

This Vow Part Three

 _Desire_

" _You know I love you, right?"_

 _His voice seems to come from far away. It's probably the meds, finally kicking in. She's thankful for that, for many reasons. Her coach had been right; she should have been more careful on that last landing. If she had been, she might have ended up with just a sprain and not a break._

 _At least she won the tournament._

 _She's so tired. Every time she's nodded off, the pain has woken her up, but it finally seems to be receding, and she just wants him to leave, but she knows he won't._

 _He's part of their family now._

 _And he's been good to them, he really has. After the car accident, he took their case for free, and mom got a nice big settlement, and she got to keep the house and keep the car and keep working part-time and Harley got to keep here gymnastics lessons._

 _So many things she got to keep …_

 _It doesn't make her forget what she's lost._

 _But it does make it easier to ignore certain things. The hugs that hold too tight, the hands that linger, the looks that go on too long. And it's not fair, because he really does seem to care, and he's taught her how to shoot and he's teaching her how to drive, and things are going so well, and, it's just this one little thing…_

 _It won't be until years later that she learns the words, words like grooming, predator, pedophile. At the time, she doesn't have the language to articulate what is happening to her, or what is about to happen. She only has that sickly feeling in the pit of her stomach, the unpleasant prickling of her skin, the voice in her head telling her this isn't right, this isn't safe._

" _You know I love you," he whispers. His hand is creeping up her stomach. She's so tired…she closes her eyes._

" _It's okay," he croons. "I'm your dad now."_

 _Harleen's eyes fly open. "You're not my dad," she hisses, and kicks him in the face with her good leg. And when he runs from the room screaming, blood streaming from his face, the sound is finally enough to soothe her off to sleep._

 _She knows the things she'll lose. Not all of them, but some._

 _But it's so nice to be in control again. To not have to be the sweet little girl in need of a rescue._

 _It's so nice to keep herself._

*Session Three*

"Hello again, Mr. J. How have you been feeling this week?"

"Lonesome. You should come to see me more often."

"You're not my only patient, you know."

"Maybe not. But I'm your favorite."

She supposes that's true, in a way. Though he's not like he has a lot of competition. There's the man supposedly suffering from Dissociate Identity Disorder, though Harleen's pretty sure he's malingering so he won't be charged for killing his family; unfortunately, she can't prove it yet. There's a woman who was misdiagnosed with bipolar disorder and whose underlying issues appear to stem from chronic drug use. She's in for assaulting her pimp, though Harleen feels any lawyer worth their salt could make a good argument for self-defense, and the woman frankly does not belong in a criminal facility. There's the man who severely beat the cop who stopped him from killing himself, who doesn't talk anymore and won't tell her why he was suicidal in the first place, and there are others, some sad, some sadistic. She wants to help them – well, some of them – but it turns out that both Arkham the facility and Arkham the man do not take kindly to being corrected, and are very slow to change treatment plans. Despite her new-found apathy for psychiatry, it's still frustrating when patient care takes a backseat to bureaucracy.

But that all goes away when she's with the Joker.

She's not sure why, exactly. Maybe it's his reputation for being incurable, untreatable; there's no expectation of progress, so it takes all the pressure off. But no, it's … it's more than that. She has no doubt he's trying to manipulate her (and anyone else he thinks might get him what he wants), but at the same time, there is a strange sort of honesty for him. He makes no excuses for his criminal and sometimes horrific behavior. He may be unwilling (or unable) to tell her who he was, but now, sitting across from her, he is who he is: charming, ruthless, amusing, cruel, exciting, dangerous, deadly, unpredictable…

She says none of this to him, naturally. "Of course you're my favorite. I mean, I say that to all my patients, but I really only mean it with _you_."

He throws back his head and laughs. Harleen feels the thrill of it, but keeps herself composed.

"One of these days, doc, you're gonna laugh with me."

"Hmm. So that's it important to you, is it? Making people laugh?" It's as good a place to start as any.

"I wasn't talking about people. Just you."

"Oh? So you don't want to make anyone else laugh? What about the Bat?"

"We-ellll … now that you mention it … he does need to grow a sense of humor. And he's so uptight. He needs to let loose, have some fun." He chuckles. "The man is a control freak, doc, I tell you, it's like he thinks he can single-handedly save this city from going to hell if he just tries hard enough. I'm trying to do him a favor! He needs some laughter in his life!"

"But he's not the only one, is he? You want people to get the joke, don't you? It must be frustrating when they don't."

"One of the painful truths of comedy, doc. You're always take shots from people who don't get the joke!"

"Indeed. But why do you think you feel the _need_ to make people laugh?"

"I have a feeling," he says in a sing-songy voice, "being the _perfect_ little shrink that you are, you might just have a theory about that, Doctor Quinzel."

She smiles despite herself. "Of course I do. I imagine you already know what it is."

"It's about power," they say at the same time.

She leans back slightly. "Am I wrong?"

"Hmmm …" He pretends to mull it over. "I wouldn't say you're entirely inaccurate… If you make someone laugh, you can have a certain …" he swivels in his seat, "level of control over them. Or influence, at least."

"Yes, I can see that. Still, that could be true if you went for any strong emotional reaction – horror, sadness, fear, even hate or rage."

"Well yeah but," he leans in, "the thing of it is, when you make someone laugh, you have power over them, and they don't even realize it."

"Ah. So it's the ultimate way to control a situation. That's interesting, considering your persona."

"My persona?" There's an edge to his voice now, but she presses on just the same.

"You like to present yourself as unpredictable, a wild card. You've got a lot of style, and you've got a lot of blood on your hands, but maybe, just maybe, what it all boils down to is that you're just as much of a control freak as the Bat."

He draws in his breath sharply through his teeth, and his eyes narrow. Harleen's heart is beating very fast.

"You think you got me all figured out? You need to be very, very, careful, Harley Quinn."

"That's not my name –"

"Yes it is. And you're damned lucky it is, because it makes me like you just enough not to pull your guts out through your throat. I'm nothing like the Bat!"

"Ooh, I think I hit a nerve…"

When he gets up this time, it is slow and deliberate. Harleen stands up as well, and balls her hands into fists to keep him from shaking. He moves awkwardly in the restraints, but still seems graceful somehow

"You should be afraid of me, Harley," He hisses. "Leeland is. Arkham is too, but he pretends not to be. He doesn't pretend very well though. Come to think of it … neither do you."

"I'm not afraid of you," she says, trying not to shake, and he grins widely, back in control again.

"Sure you're not," He purrs, and leans in.

"You think I can't take you down?"

"Oh by all means, straddle me again, sweetheart. We could have even more fun this time…"

"You're a pig."

The way he laughs sometimes … he can make it sound as smooth and sweet as he wants. "And you're magnificent. You're so much more than this … this little box they've got you in, Harley! Don't you ever want to break out? Aren't you bored?"

She has every intention of saying something cutting, but what comes out is: "Not when I'm in here with you, Mr. J."

She puts her hand on his chest. She can feel the warmth of him, the life, the electricity, even through the straightjacket. _That's right, it's a straightjacket, Harleen. Never forget who he is, and never forgot why he's here. Don't let him play with you, no matter how much fun it seems like now. It will end badly, it always does._

She swallows, takes a deep breath. "Get back in your seat."

He smirks, knowing he's won this round. "Okay, baby."

"Dr. Quinzel. Not Harley, not Harley Quinn, sweetheart, baby, or any other of your cute little names. I'm your doctor, not your play thing, and I deserve respect!"

"Aww, who says I don't respect you?"

She scoffs, but he continues. "No seriously, you should be running the place instead of Arkham!"

"Why? Because you want the head shrink in your pocket?"

"Nooo … well okay, yes, I would like that very much, but … you're smarter than him."

"Hoo boy, Mr. J, I musta really gotten under your skin for you to be this transparent with your manipulation attempts."

"Did you know that when you let your guard down, you're accent comes out?"

"Yes, I did. Except I haven't let my guard down. It also comes out when I'm pissed off. You've got an impressive rap sheet, Mr. J, but you ought not to mess with a Brooklyn girl."

"But I like messing with you Harley, almost as much as you like messing with me. You wanna talk about power trips? Being a shrink's gotta be the biggest power trip there is! Getting people to confess to you all their deep, dark secrets, their doubts, their fears, telling them what's wrong with them and then dangling a bottle of pills over their head to make it all better, all the while revealing nothing of yourself but a clean white coat and a clipboard? And you think _I'm_ the control freak?"

"So that's how you see psychiatry, Mr. J?"

"Sweetheart, is there any other way to see it?"

She's forgetting now, to correct him on the nicknames. She'll remember later, that she let it slide, but at the time, it doesn't seem like such a big deal.

"I used to think it was about helping people."

"Used to." _Damn it!_

"I mean I still do," she amends hastily, but he's not convinced.

"Getting a little jaded, are we, doc?"

"Maybe I've been spending too much time with a psychopathic clown."

"Or maybe not enough." He grins widely. "So that's what you're here then for, doc? To help me?"

She sighs. Talking, interacting with him on any level, is exhilarating, but it's also exhausting, mostly because she has to keep herself from enjoy it too much.

"That would depend on you, Mr. J. You can try to understand someone, you can try to have compassion for them. But you can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. You can't help someone who doesn't think they have a problem."

"But I do have a problem, Harley."

"Oh?"

"I need to get out of here."

"Well, if you commit to a treatment plan –"

"That's not what I mean, and you know it. I need to bust out of this place, these walls are suffocating me… wait a second…" He actually looks incredulous. "Did you just write down 'claustrophia'?"

Scribble, scribble. "Yup."

He growls, deep in his throat. It's a disturbingly appealing sound. "You're luck you're cute, my sweet Harley Quinn."

"I'm not your sweet anything."

"Mmm, sweet's overrated anyway. I like a little –"

"Call me a little tart and you'll be pissing blood for the next three weeks, _puddin'_."

"Oh god … you're so … good. Just talking to you makes everything brighter. I'm living for these moments for these moments with you, Dr. Quinzel. Oh no, don't leave me yet." She's gathering up her things.

"Our time is up."

"No, but I really mean it this time. I wanna get to know you better."

"Do you?" She stares at him. "You act like you know who me already."

"Oh, I do, the core of you. But I want the particulars. I want the seeds. I want the skin."

"I'm not –"

"You think I've got a persona doc, a mask I hide myself behind? Well guess what? So do you. And I can't wait to find out what's beneath…"

She's shaking again, in anger more than fear. "If you want me to keep coming back, you won't threaten–"

"Psht. Of course you'll come back Harley. You can't stay away from me. Not now. And I'll be waiting. I'll always be waiting."

He says more, in that low seductive purr, but Harleen doesn't hear it, because she's already out the door.

She's angry at him, certainly. Even locked up, he may very well have the resources to discover she isn't the "perfect" psychiatrist she pretends she is. But she's even angrier at herself, because despite all her knowledge, despite all her precautions, despite her past experience at being manipulated, she knows he's right. She won't stay away. It's not that she can't, it's that she doesn't want to.

Twisted as it may seem, the Joker is the best thing in her life right now. He makes her feel alive, challenged, on top of her game, and she's not ready to give that up.


	4. Chapter 4

This Vow Part Four

 _Desire_

" _Harleen?"_

 _Her mother's voice is thick and sweet, like syrup. She knows what that means. Still, she doesn't look up from her books. She needs to ace it all this year, the last year; the gymnastics scholarship will pay for room and board, but it barely makes a dent in the tuition bill, so she'd damn well better get an academic scholarship for the rest._

 _God knows she can't rely on mom for the money…_

 _Or anything else, for that matter._

 _There was a time though, when she could. She could rely on her for anything. So strong, so smart, her mom, fixing everything and everyone with an almost surgical precision. Mom who could get dad out of a funk faster than anyone, mom who could answer all of Harleen's endless questions, mom who kept her patients from relapsing, mom who always drank grape soda, even at weddings, mom the bad-ass, mom the magnificent, mom the superhero._

" _Physician, heal thyself," Harleen muttered under her breath, and then giggled. "Patient uses humor as a coping mechanism," she added for good measure, and giggled again._

 _Then she sighed. Mom's not even a real doctor anyway, she told herself. Everyone knows an MD beats a Ph.D. any day of the week._

" _Harleen!"_

 _The sweet-syrup voice has an edge now. This isn't going to be happy-drunk time, is it? No, this is going to be angry drunk, mom the mean, mom the malevolent, mom the …_

" _Harleen! I need you to go to the store!"_

 _Harleen puts her pencil down. "No." She says quietly._

" _Harleen?"_

" _No!" She shouts it now. "You want more booze, you're gonna have to buy it yourself!"_

 _It's then that her mother enters her room. You'd expect her to stagger, but no, mommy is the most graceful drunk Harleen will ever see; she doesn't know if it's her dancing background, or from what she later learns, that she was what is referred to as 'functional' alcoholic; even in these years, the worst years, there will still be patients helped, patients 'cured,' who sing her praises._

 _But Harleen receives little benefit from her 'functionality.'_

" _You don't talk to me that way, young lady. I may not be perfect, but I'm your mother. Show me some respect!"_

 _Harleen swivels in her chair, crossing her legs beneath her. She cracks her gum and tilts her head._

" _Do me the courtesy of being sober, mother dear, and I'll be the picture of respect." Her smile shows teeth. Harleen knows she shouldn't provoke her, but the rage that's roiling in the pit of her stomach is begging to be let out. It's not fair, it's not fair, that she's the one that has to hold it together. Let mommy try for a change._

" _Oh but that's right, you can't, can you? Bet all your high-profile patient would be just shocked if they knew that. Or maybe I should just tell your boss, Dr. Lynne? Tell me mother, which way would you like me torpedo your career? Slow or fast? Because we both know that's the only thing you really care about – aside from the bottle, of course."_

 _Her mother's eyes narrow, and Harleen can tell she's deciding something. When her mother smiles back, she shows teeth too. This what they have left now between them, smiles like switch blades, eyes like daggers, hearts like paper dolls._

 _She will not cry._

" _You every think about would have happened to us if you haven't made up those lies about your stepfather?"_

 _She will not cry._

 _Harleen clenches her teeth and blinks back her tears. "Well geez ma, that escalated quickly. You really think I'm getting the bottles after that? Maybe I oughta make you crawl for them. I bet he liked you on your knees..."_

 _The slap doesn't even hurt that much. Haha, oh well. First time for everything._

 _That's when Harleen takes out her non-metaphorical switch blade._

 _And then it's like … it's like she's watching herself, with the clinical detachment she would only learn later in life. Watching herself as she backs her mother into the wall. Watching herself as she puts the knife to mom's throat. Watching herself as the faintest trickle of blood –_

 _Harleen drops the knife with shaking hands. As one, the two blonde women slump to the floor._

 _And when mom reaches for her, and the smell of sweat and alcohol engulfs her, Harleen does not pull away._

" _I was jokin' ma, I was just jokin'. I'd never…"_

 _But what terrifies is not the act. It's the desire behind the act._

 _Because for a moment, just a moment, she really, really wanted to._

*Session Four*

"Hellooo, Harley."

She folds her arms across her chest, sits down. She wonders sometimes, whether she should even bother to correct him, but in the end, she still does.

"It's Dr. Quinzel, Mr. J. You know that."

"Oh, but Harley feels so much more … intimate."

"It does. Which is why you don't get to use it. Tell me, Mr. J, did you think you were the first person in my life to come up with that nickname?"

She cannot deny a certain level of satisfaction when this thought seems to give him pause. He raises a brow at her.

"Who else called you Harley?" Then he grins. "Should I be jealous?"

 _Of Red? Not likely. Can't be jealous of someone who's … gone._

"I don't belong to you, Mr. J."

"You oughta."

"Mr. J, that's enough –"

"You know, I've been reading up on you."

Harleen feels her pulse quicken. _You expected this,_ she reminds herself. _You_ _know he's resourceful, you know he has his ways._

And yes, Harleen had known. She expected that at some point, he would find out about her professional (or less-than-professional) past.

She just hadn't expected him to do it so quickly.

She lets out a breath. "I'll just bet you have. So, let's get this out in the open, shall we? Six months ago, I was suspended for –"

"You broke that kid's nose."

Harleen grips her pen tight. "Yes, I did. How do you feel about that?"

He laughs. "Still trying to shrink me, doc? Even now?"

"Yes. Even now. So … how do you feel about that?"

"Like the kid's lucky that's the only thing you broke. Like the kid's lucky he's still breathing."

"I … should never have …"

"Don't. Don't you do that, Harley. I can read between the lines. I know what he did. I know how he played you. It takes a lot of skill to make yourself the victim when the charge is matricide, but he found a way to make himself lily-white." He chuckles. "Metaphorically speaking, of course. The literal transformation is a little more … uncomfortable. God, Harley, and he must have been convincing too, because you're smart, you're so smart. How much research do you think he had to do, to play the perfect abuse victim? Or maybe …" She sees him mind working … "Or maybe he took his cues from you…"

"S-stop –"

"Oh Harley, who hurt you? Daddy? No? Stepdaddy? Yeah, that fits in more with what the kid came up with, doesn't it? Didn't _his_ stepdad hang himself, after the trial?"

Harleen is crying now. "It's my fault. I killed him, because I believe those lies."

"No," he whispers. "No it's not. You knew whose fault it was, Harley. You knew it, and you knew what you had to do about it. I bet they had to pull you off him. Hell, I bet they had to sedate you! I bet they were frightened by the fire of you, the power they didn't think you had because you're blonde and pretty and you know how to smile. You know that kid's gonna be out at 21. You know he's gonna get away with it. They just stopped you before you had the chance to make it right."

"N-no…"

"All the lives he ruined, Harley … he used you to do it."

"I'd never … never ever … I'm not capable…"

"You're more than capable. Oh Harley, Harley, the core of you... don't cry, baby. Don't be ashamed.

"God, what do you want?"

"I just want to hear you say it. Just once. I just want to hear you say it."

The thought that keeps her up at night, more than anything else. More than what she did, it's what she didn't do. If her mentor hadn't been there…

"I wanted … I wanted… he had it coming. He did. I should have finished him off. I should have killed him. He deserves to pay for what he's done."

The Joker closes his eyes, savoring his triumph. "Thank you. I can die happy now, Dr. Quinzel." He opens his eyes, winks at her. "Especially if you were the one wielding the knife. I'd be so proud of you, my little protégé…"

Harleen can't stop shaking for several minutes. "You oughta be careful what you wish for…"

He laughs. "Baby, every time you threaten me, it turns me on. And you know, as brilliant as you are, my Harley Quinn, your past wasn't that hard to figure out after all."

Harleen takes her glasses off, dries her eyes, wipes he face clean. She puts them back on, takes deep breaths, and decides to take another gamble, to use the only ammo she has left.

"At least I have one, Mr. J."

When she sees the smile fall from his face, she knows she hit the mark.

"What?"

"I said, at least I have one. Tell me, how many different stories of your life do you have floating around in your head? The battered boy, the desperate man, the hardened criminal, the innocent victim of circumstance –"

"That's enough, Harley."

"Do you think if you tell a story that's convincing enough, it'll finally become the one that's true?"

"If I'm gonna have a past, I _prefer_ it to be multiple choice –"

"Bullshit!" She slams her hand down on the desk. She planned on confronting him with this of course, sessions and sessions later, when she thought he was ready, but that was before therapy degenerated into … wherever the hell they are now. "There is nothing about this, J, that you _prefer_. You don't _know_ what memories are real. You don't know _anything_ about who you were before you fell into that acid bath. It wasn't the acid that drove crazy. It was the uncertainty. So now you cope. You cope horribly, homicidally, but you cope. You think I'm the one who's easy to figure out? You're textbook, baby. Textbook."

There's dead silence when she finishes. He looks at her like… he looks at her like … she can't describe it.

He looks at her with rage and lust and hatred and longing, like he wants to keep her as close as his own skin before he watches her fall.

"You think you've got me all figure out?" He hisses. "Just like that?"

She blinks, feeling as if a weight has been lifted. "Yeah, I do. Just like that. We're done."

"Time's up already?"

"No. No, I mean, we're done. I'm giving you back to Leland. I'm not your doctor anymore."

"You … you can't do that…"

"Watch me," she whispers, and stands up. She turns, and opens the door.

"Harley." First it's the low, seductive purr, but by the time she's walking out, he's screaming, harsh, guttural cries, making the guards stare and quake, making the halls reverberate with sound, making something deep in her bones feel sick and satisfied at the same time.

"Harley! You get back here! We're not done until I say we're done! Harley!" Is there a desperate edge to his voice now, or is she imagining it? She's such a sucker for being needed.

"Harley!"

 _Patient is … agitated._

Sure, she can stay away.

But for how long? How long before she craves him, his broken and beautiful blue eyes staring unflinching at the darkness of her own soul?

How long before she comes out to play?

*Author's Note: Uh, okay, so… Harleen kind of took to me to a dark place in this chapter, kind of darker than I thought we were going. I don't know where I got the mother stuff, seriously. Harleen's crazy, you guys! Also, the next chapter will have something in the way of plot developments. It will move things along, I hope.*


	5. Chapter 5

This Vow Part Five

 _Desire_

" _I wish you wouldn't leave, Harleen."_

" _Eric, it's really for the best. They're letting me keep my license, but that doesn't mean they won't fire me. It just looks better if I resign instead.…"_

" _I know, that … it's just … damn it Harleen, you're brilliant! The work you do with these kids … I mean everything from rehabilitation to trial prep … you got the Kinsey girl to talk for the first time in two years! Are you really going to throw all those successes away for one…?"_

" _One what, Eric?" She gives him a bitter smile. "One little mistake? Except you and I both know that is was anything but little, wasn't it? You don't understand how bad…"_

" _You might be surprised, Harleen." He sounds weary now, wearier than she's ever heard him. He sounds old, and it makes her angry, because he's not allowed to be old. He must remain as he is, vital, blustering, sometimes pompous but always compassionate, fighting for funding and for patients and for her._

 _He's not allowed to grow old._

" _Really?"_

" _You should know by now that medicine, and especially psychiatry, can be more subjective than we're ever comfortable admitting. You're not the first one to get snowed by a patient, Harleen, and you won't be the last."_

" _Well, I imagine most shrinks don't compound the error by beating up said patient."_

" _Hell Harleen, that kid … I would've hit him too."_

" _No you wouldn't have, Eric. You wouldn't have, and you know it. I saw the look in your eyes, after. I scared you. Hell, I scared myself!"_

 _He sighs, but does not deny it. "Where will you go?"_

 _Harleen smiles wearily. "You're not gonna like it."_

" _Just tell me. Please."_

" _Arkham Asylum."_

 _Eric groans. "You know that man's an idiot, don't you? I mean, he's about 50 years behind in his attitudes when it comes to the field of mental health! Do you he actually advocated for conversion theory at one point?! To say nothing of the patients…"_

" _Worried they'll eat me alive?"_

" _No, of course not."_

" _Worried I'll eat them alive?"_

 _He actually laughs at that. "Oh god Harleen, I'm going to miss you so much."_

 _He enfolds her in a hug._

" _If you're ever come back to New York, you know you're always welcome at our house."_

" _I know, Eric. Tell Marie I'll miss her too." Where would she go now, on Thanksgiving and Christmas? Where did all the sad-sack singles go on those holidays? She supposes she'll have to find out._

 _She wants to stay. She wants to stay and let him fight for her, advocate for her, pull more strings for her, the same strings he'd pulled to keep her from facing criminal charges and to get her license back._

 _But that just wouldn't be fair. He's done so much for her already, it's not fair to take advantage of his good nature any more than she already has. It's time to move on, leave the nest, sink or swim, and all those other clichés._

 _It's time to grow up._

*No Session*

"Dr. Quinzel, can I can talk to you for a minute?"

Harleen looks up from her paperwork, and quickly pushes the files aside. "Of course, Dr. Leeland. Please, sit."

"I think you know what this is about, so I'll come right to the point."

"Dr. Leeland, it wasn't my intention to burden you with –"

"Oh please, don't talk about burdening. Everyone needs a break when it comes to the Joker. In fact, I think you might have broken the record for most consecutive sessions with him."

"Well, we only had four sessions."

"Exactly." Leeland tucks her black hair behind her ear. "He gets passed around from doctor to doctor, more than any other patient in here."

"That can't be good for his therapy."

"Hmm. I think that's the way he wants it, though. Keep us off guard. At least, that's what I used to think…"

"Excuse me?"

"He was asking for you today. During therapy. Normally, he spends him time needling me, trying to get under my skin, and I'm not ashamed to say he often succeeds, but today … he was pretty damn fixated on you. Wouldn't really talk about anything else. Suffice to say, we had an even less productive than usual session."

"Are you saying you want me to take him back?"

Leeland leans in. "Not at all. I can handle the Joker – at least, for a while. What I'm saying, Dr. Quinzel, is that you need to be careful. I can't come to a definitive conclusion after just one session, of course, but right now, it seems like he's developing an obsession with you."

Harleen puts her head in her hands. Her pulse quickens, her palms sweat. She ignores the not-entirely-unpleasant tingle that goes down her spine. "Well, aren't I a lucky girl," she mutters, when she finally lifts her head back up. "But then, psychopaths _do_ prefer blondes."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Leeland smiles faintly. "I thought that was gentleman."

Harleen waves her hand. "Same thing."

Leeland lets out a snort of laughter, then checks herself. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Joan. Can I call you Joan?"

"Only if I can call you Harleen."

"Deal. You know, these papers aren't going anywhere. You want to grab lunch?"

Halfway through the meal, Harleen decides she's just going to go ahead and let herself like Joan Leeland. She's been consciously holding herself aloof from her co-workers, wanting to avoid uncomfortable questions about her past, but Joan seems to have neither the myopic narcissism or Arkham nor the casual indifference of the guards. She's articulate and passionate about patient care, but also savvy about what she can and can't do while Arkham is in charge.

"I wish he'd retire," Joan says, as they pay their bills. "I mean, even if he brought in one of his cronies to take over, I think they'd be more progressive…"

"One of his cronies? Shouldn't you be next in line for the job?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? Let's just say I'm not holding my breath … he passed me over for a promotion before for a guy who didn't even last three months…"

"I smell a lawsuit," Harleen quipped, and both women giggled.

"Oh, don't get me started. I thought about it, but honestly, it's not worth the hassle. He'd just make my life miserable. As it is, he's shrewd enough to know he can't get rid of me, so you know … job security, I guess."

"Let's hope that goes for me too!"

"Let's hope."

They make their way quickly across the street back to Arkham. As soon as they get past the security parameter, it is clear something is seriously wrong.

"Where the hell have two hens been?" Arkham bellows.

"On our designated thirty-minute lunch break," Joan calmly replies, before Harleen can say something cutting. She has to admire Joan's restraint, but then, she's used to dealing with him.

"What's happened?" Harleen asks, though she's not sure why. She's pretty certain she already knows the answer.

"The Joker escaped. Again."

"Well, shit," Harleen blurts out, but Arkharm ignores her.

"So much for our new security protocols," Joan mutters, suddenly sounding ten years older.

"Shut it, Joan. I don't need any or your lip right now. You were the last one in there with him!"

"You can't possibly blame her for this!" Harleen snaps. That finally seems to get his attention, and he glares at her.

"Oh don't worry, Harleen, he can't. He can't, but he'd like to. Is that about the size of it, Jer?"

Arkham's hands clench into fists. Joan meets his gaze evenly until he looks down.

"Lock-down protocol," he snaps at her, and walks away from her.

Joan sighs. "You and I will be doing med checks together. We should be able to get out of here in a few hours. If we're lucky, we might even get a police escort home."

Harleen takes a deep breath. "Okay."

"Do you by any chance own a gun?"

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"Good. You might want to sleep with under your pillow for a while."

*Author's Note: I hope this chapter was not too boring without the presence of our wonderfully psychotic and disturbing attractive Mr. J. (yes, I think Jared Leto's joker is hot and I don't care who knows it!) I promise he will be front and center in the next installment. I needed to establish some plot elements in this chapter, so I hope it doesn't feel like a placeholder or anything.*


	6. Chapter 6

This Vow Part Six

 _Desire becomes Surrender_

 _It's been a few nights since the Joker made his escape, and things have returned to some semblance of normalcy in Arkham. Unable to blame any of his fellow psychiatrists for the Joker's most recent breakout, Arkham vents his vitriol on the prison guards – at least, until the press coverage subsides, which takes a surprisingly short amount of time. Patients escaping the facility is not exactly ground-breaking news, after all. Especially when it comes to the the high-profile ones like Mr. J._

 _Harleen finds herself restless, nervous, suffering from poor, fitful sleep and half-remembered dreams. She nearly jumps out of her seat when Joan pops her head in the door to see how she's doing, and though she can remain focused during patient sessions, at other times, her mind easily strays…_

 _What if he shows up at her doorstep?_

 _No, that's not right. If he's going to show up, it won't be at her doorstep. It will be in her house, quietly, a presence so subtle that she might not even notice it at first. Then, slowly, she will take it in: things moved around, furniture slightly askew, a strange, indescribable sent in the air – perhaps a feeling of mild euphoria, from one of the semi-toxic gasses he uses? He is a skilled chemist, after all. Then she will brush off the strangeness, rationalize, sigh, relax, get ready for bed. And just as she's convinced herself she's safe, slipping between the sheets, slowing her heart rate, closing her eyes – "BOO!" A bone-bending laugh that is equal parts child-like playfulness and homicidal maniac._

 _And who knows what will happen next, depending on what mood he's in? Her death? Her abduction? Her objectification?_

 _Her idolization?_

 _Sometimes, she worries she is waiting for something to happen._

 _Sometimes, she worries that she is wanting something to happen…. Well, if only to get it over with._

 _Right?_

 _And then one night … something does._

 _There's no big shock, no bang, no laugh, no punchline. She simply rolls over, opens her eyes, and he's there._

" _Hiya, Harley. Miss me?"_

 _Their eyes lock for a long minute, and he grins. "Ain't you gonna scream?"_

" _You'd like that, wouldn't you?" As unobtrusively as possible, she reaches underneath her pillow._

" _Actually, I'd like to make you scream for an entirely different reason … oh, come on! That was funny!"_

 _In one fluid moment, she sits up, clutching the sheet to her with one hand and pointing the gun at him with the other._

" _Ha ha."_

" _Ooh, I didn't know you were into toys…"_

" _That's cute. Won't be so cute when I blow your brains out though…"_

" _You don't want to do that…"_

" _Are you sure?"_

" _Pretty sure. So … do you always sleep nude?"_

 _She feels her face flush, but holds the gun steady. "Studies have shown it's good for your health."_

" _Well, you look very … healthy." He eyes travel over inch of her skin that is not covered by the sheets. Then he meets her eyes again and smirks. "You don't want to kill me."_

 _Harleen disengages the safety on the gun. "Maybe I do."_

 _He swivels his head theatrically. God, the way he moves sometimes, the fluidity of it, she could swear he was a dancer in some previous life. "We-elll…" He drawls, looking more amused than ever, "If that's the case, guess we might as well … get it over with…"_

 _He moves closer to her as he speaks, and Harleen feels her arm began to tremble. He keeps moving though, leaning in, not stopping until he's pressed his forehead against the barrel of her gun._

 _Then, lightning-fast, he grabs the gun from her, tossing it carelessly aside. She expects him to grab at her then, claw at her arm, drag her out of the bed, but he does not. Instead, he leans on the bed, pulling himself up, bringing his face very close to hers._

" _You know, since we've established you're not going to kill me right this minute … is there … anything else you might want to do?"_

 _When their lips meet, Harleen lets go of the bedsheet._

*No Session*

The sound of the alarm jolts her awake. It takes her a moment to realize she was dreaming, and then another moment to realize what she was dreaming about…

And who.

She sits bolt upright in bed. "Damn it!"

This is followed by a solid thirty seconds of wrestling her sheets, in which she somehow managed to get all tangled up, followed by an undignified trip to the floor as she finally wrenches herself free.

"God damn it! Shit! Fuck! Fuck you!"

 _That's what you want to do, Harley, and I'm more than game,_ says his voice in her head, to which she responds, "Shut the fuck up! … Aaand I'm talking to myself. Great. Goddamn fucking psychopathic clown, he's going to drive me even crazier than he is!" Then she laughs, because really, what else is she supposed to do at this point, _I guess we don't need Freud for this one, do we,_ and _patient uses humor as a coping mechanism,_ but she stops right at the point where she thinks her laughter might turn into sobs. Then she collects herself, gets her her bruised bottom and her even more bruised ego off the floor and heads to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. As she does so, she mutters to herself, "I need a pet. Or a one-night-stand. Or a dildo. Or something."

By the time she's had her coffee, her run, and her shower, she is considerably calmer, and by the time she arrives at Arkham, her face is frozen in a carefully neutral expression that says, "I did not just have a vaguely erotic dream about an escaped mental patient." Fortunately, the guards are oblivious to nuance, Arkham avoids eye contact and looks her straight in the tits, and Joan is too distracted by a new patient to notice anything amiss. The asylum is hardly a difficult task in a place like this to keep onself occupied, after all, and Harleen applies herself accordingly. After client meetings, she sets about attacking the mountain of paperwork on her desk, and by the time 5PM rolls around, she's got in down to a much more manageable hill of paperwork. That's not enough, though. She intends to flatten the hill.

This time, when Joan pops in to say she's headed out, Harleen doesn't even flinch, and informs her colleague that she will be staying late to finish her administrative tasks. Joan starts to protest that Harleen shouldn't over-extend herself, no matter what Arkham says; however, once glance at Harleen's expression tells Joan that maybe she needs to be there, with at least one aspect of her life in her control, and Joan wisely retreats. As for Arkham, he doesn't even bother to say good night, but Harleen's used to that by now. Pretty soon it's just her and the night staff, and by the time she's put the last piece of paper to bed, it's 9PM. Tired, but feeling like she at least accomplished something, she admits to herself that she can't put off going home any longer.

She heads to the bathroom, then returns to her office, intending to grab her purse and lock up…

Only to find that a man dressed up as a bat has taken up residence in her office.

 _Yeesh. I step out for one minute …_

He's not alone. Of course he's not. At his feet, in a semiconscious state, lies Mr. J.

Harleen says the first thing that pops into her head.

"What the hell is this?"

The masked man frowns. "I apprehended the Joker while he was engaged in criminal activity," he explains, in a tone that clearly indicates _I really shouldn't have to explain this to you, but I think you're stupid, so I'm going to anyway._ It's the same way Arkham usually talks to her, and she takes to it about as well.

"Yeah, I can see that. And you decided to dump him on my office floor … why?"

"Medical records indicate you're his doctor."

"Oh they do, huh? And you know that because … oh that's right. Because HIPPA laws don't apply to superheroes, I guess. In any case, whatever medical files you illegally hacked your way into are out of date. Dr. Leeland was the last one who dealt with him … before he escaped."

"Well, she's not here. You are."

"Brilliant deduction, detective," she snaps. She supposes she should be nicer to him, being that he's a hero and all, but really, this is _sooo_ not how she planned on ending her day, she is way too tired for this shit, all she wants to do is go home and eat chocolate and read a trashy novel or watch some bad reality TV, is that really too much to ask –

At his feet, the Joker lets out a laugh, followed by a low moan.

Instantly, Harleen is kneeling by his side, cursing herself for not noticing the blood earlier. She wipes it out of his eyes, noting with relief that the cut on his forehead doesn't look too deep and probably won't require stitches.

"How's your vision, Mr. J?"

"I only have eyes for you, Harley." His speech is slightly slurred.

"Shut up! I mean, it is blurry?"

"Well, how many fingers are you holding up … oh now Harley, that's not very nice, I don't think you should flip me off in front of the Batman, he might get the wrong impression about are relationship…"

"We don't _have_ a relationship!"

But Joker looks past her and at the looming figure above them. "We had a fight," he says in a loud whisper. "I think she's still mad at me. She's cute when she's mad, don't you think?" Harleen looks up at Batman.

"You couldn't have knocked him out cold before your brought him here? As it is, I'm pretty sure you gave him a concussion, so you might as well have gone for broke."

The chiseled jaw clenches. "He resisted arrest."

"Arrest?" _Last time I checked, Batsy, you weren't a cop._ "Well, whatever. He needs to be medically cleared before he's re-admitted here. You should have brought him to a hospital."

"This is a hospital."

Harleen stands up, managing not to teeter in her heels, despite her exhaustion. "Please don't talk to me like I'm an idiot," she snaps. "This is a _mental_ hospital. We're not exactly equipped to handle concussions, to say nothing of a possible traumatic brain injury. He needs to go to Gotham General. Damn it," she mutters, more to herself than to him, "that's just what he needs, brain damage on top of underlying mental instability. That'll make him really _easy_ to treat, thanks a lot."

Batman scowls. Clearly, he is not used to having his authority challenged. "He was threatening someone else's life. I took him in with as little violence as possible."

"Oh for … if he's that much of a threat, why don't you just kill him and get it over with?"

"That's just what I said, Harley," the Joker interjects, trying and failing to sit up.

"Don't move!" She points at him. "You're concussed, I don't need you making it worse."

"It's hot when you take charge, baby." Before she can protest this, he adds, "Don't you worry about old Batsy, he's just sore because I went after the kid."

"The kid?"

"Robin. His little sidekick. Surprisingly resilient for an upstart…"

"You went after a child?"

"Pfft, hardly, he's a teenager at least … you know," his gaze suddenly seems less clouded. "You know, probably not much older than the one that _you_ –"

"Shut up!" She hisses, and turns back to Batman. "All right, fine, whatever, I'll call the police and Gotham General and whoever else needs to know. I'll take care of it. Just when I thought I was done with paperwork…" Sighing, she reaches for the phone, makes the necessary calls. As she hangs up the phone, she says to caped crusader, "Well, I guess you can …"

But when she turns around, he's gone.

"…Go." She finishes. "You're welcome, asshole," she mutters to the space where he used to be.

Below her, there is a mad giggle. "Don't hold back, Harls. Tell me what you really think of Bats! Oh…"

Another groan of pain. She's down by his side again. His shirt is torn half off, and her hands roam his chest, gently.

"Ooh, are you feeling me up? I like this…"

"I'm checking for broken ribs, you idiot," she snaps, but her hands slow, still.

"Aww, you care. I'm touched."

"Don't be. It's just my job."

"So I take it you'll still pissed off at me?"

"You think? You had no business prying into my past!"

"Hey now, to be fair, I got a reason to be pissed off too. You left me to rot with Leeland! Granted, she's pretty decent looking, but I was bored out of my mind!"

Harleen raises a brow. "'Decent-looking,' huh?"

He grins widely. "Don't be jealous baby, you know she can't hold a candle to you."

"I'm _not_ jeal –" She says automatically, and then stops herself. _Why give him the satisfaction?_

"You're not an easy patient, you know," she says instead.

"Yeah, I know. But if you'll be my shrink again… I promise to be good."

"Bullshit."

He giggles. "Okay, but I promise not to be boring. Come Harley, let's have some fun again. What do you say?"

"I say … you better address me as _Dr. Quinzel_."

"Is that a yes?" She says nothing. Her hands seem to have found their way into his hair. It looks freakish, but feels human. She can hear footsteps on the stairs. They're coming now, to take him.

"Do you want me to beg, Doc?"

Despite herself, she smiles. "That might be entertaining."

"Pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty please?"

"Okay," she whispers, just before the door opens, before she straightens herself up and helps them get him onto a stretcher. And all the while, as they wheel him down the halls and out the doors, she wondering, wondering which one of them is crazier, her, or her Mr. J.


	7. Chapter 7

This Vow Part Seven

 _Surrender_

 _Freedom._

 _This is what college is to her. Not the freedom to go partying or the freedom to have a bunch of sex (though she is ready with condoms and birth control, if she meets someone she likes), but the freedom to make her own choices, to forge her own path in life._

 _And freedom from her mother._

 _Their relationship is … well, as good as it can be, all things considered. Her mother is sober again, almost two years now, and some of the sting has gone out of the horrible things they have said to each other – some, but not all. Still, they are careful with each other now rather than comfortable, and she can't help but be grateful to away from the stiffness, the forced politeness of it all. And who knows? Maybe absence will make the heart grow fonder, and they can gradually get back to the closeness they once shared._

 _But the most important thing is, her mother is not her responsibility anymore. Nor is Harleen her mother's responsibility._

 _This is her chance to prove she can stand on her own two feet. That she doesn't need anyone else._

 _Though it would be nice if she knew when her roommate was going to arrive…_

 _As if on cue, there's a hesitant knock on the door. Harleen clears her throat. "Come in."_

 _A young woman her age steps through, also wearing glasses, and also with her hair in a messy bun. She's dressed for the business of moving in; plain and practical, and not a trace of makeup in sight. Ethereal green eyes appraise Harleen warily, and apparently make a split-second decision, as the other girl's mouth quirks upward in small but sincere smile._

" _Hi, I'm Pam."_

" _I'm Harleen." She extends her hand, and they shake._

" _Sooo… I guess we're roomies."_

" _Guess so. I uh, hope you don't mind that I unpacked my stuff. My mom dropped me off early, so … but see? I left your side wide open, you should have plenty of room…"_

" _No worries." Pam glances over at Harleen's side. "Wow, you're really organized! I'm a bit more … eclectic when it comes to decorating, I hope that won't bother you."_

" _I'm sure we can manage." The two women stand there awkwardly, until Pam attempts to make conversation again._

" _So Harleen … what's your major?"_

" _Psychology. You?"_

" _Environmental studies. Of course, it's really just a stepping stone. I plan to go on to graduate work, maybe even a doctorate…"_

" _Me too! I mean," Harleen adds hastily, blushing for some reason, "I want to go to medical school."_

 _Pam laughs. "Oh, so then you'll be what they refer to as a 'real' doctor, right? Yeesh Harley, you're making me look bad already."_

 _Harleen laughs with her. "Harley, huh? You know, I think I like that."_

 _Pam smiles. "So do I."_

*Session 5*

"Hiya, doc. Been a while, hasn't it?"

"It certainly has." The Joker had indeed suffered a concussion when Batman literally dropped him on her office floor, albeit a mild one. After a stay at Gotham General and much fluttering of paperwork between the two institutions, he was finally re-admitted to Arkham. And although Joan voiced some concern for Harleen, she was happy to get the Joker off her caseload, which she freely admitted to. Even Arkham himself didn't put up any fight, reasoning (correctly for once) that the Joker seemed to cause less trouble for the staff when Harleen was responsible for his care.

On the surface, it looks like she had a lot of control in this particular scenario.

However …

She clears her throat. "So, I thought we should talk about your little excursion out into the wider world before we delve into any other issues…"

"Should we?" He says, grinning, instantly mocking her carefully formal tone. "Oh yes, let's. Do you want me to tell you how I felt about it? Should I show you my dream journal? Maybe we can do some inkblots after –"

"Are you just gonna bullshit me?"

His expression grows serious, for once. "I won't if you won't."

"Okay." She takes a deep breath.

"If you want to know why I left…"

"Oh, I know why you left." She takes a perverse pleasure in cutting him off. "Give me some credit, that one's not exactly difficult to figure out. It's not like you were here voluntarily."

He tuts. "And here I thought a good shrink didn't make assumptions. I left because _you_ left, Dr. Quinzel. Couldn't have you thinking you could just … walk out on me with no consequences, now could I?"

Harleen wears her best impassive expression. "So what was the plan, then? Track me down, kill me –"

"Well now that wouldn't be any fun –"

"What then? Tie me to the railroad tracks and wait for Batsy to show up?"

He chuckles. "You don't exactly strike me as the damsel in distress type. And speaking of Bats, I have to say I just looooved the way you handled him! I've never seen someone take him to task like an errant schoolboy, it was a thing of beauty –"

"You're dodging. What plans did you have for me?"

"Umm… how do I put this delicately … the uh … the kinds of plans that didn't involve clothing."

Harleen feels her face grow red. How, how did she not see that coming a mile away?

"You're cute when you blush…"

"You asshole," she hisses.

"Come on, it's a compliment!"

"I barely slept. And when I did, I had gun under my pillow. A fucking _gun_."

"Well… that really wasn't necessary…"

"So you say, but you forget, I know you. I've studied you. I know you can turn from charming to homicidal in the blink of eye."

"You think I'm charming, heh?"

She leans in. "This isn't a fucking joke to me, J. This is my life. One I'd like to continue living. You say you have some sort of affection for me … oh hell, let's be honest, you say you want to fuck me. Am I supposed to be flattered? Am I supposed to be turned on? Well at the risk of sounding vain, I've got news for you: plenty of men have wanted to fuck me, from stepdaddy to my college professors to criminals to clients to Arkham himself, even though he doesn't seem to think I'm an actual person. It's not a compliment, it's a threat. It's a threat, and I won't have it!"

She's shouting by the time she's finished. He actually looks … shocked at her outburst. She herself is not certain where it comes from. Well, maybe she is. She hates herself for wanting him, and she hates him more for wanting her back.

"This was a mistake," she says, her voice low now, shaking. "I need to go."

"No wait – Harley – Doc – don't go – please!"

It's the "please" that stops her. She turns around.

He shifts in his seat uncomfortably. He won't apologize, she realizes. The concept of being sorry is foreign to him. He means everything he does.

"You… you were right about me, you know."

"I … what? Sorry, didn't catch. Say again?"

He sighs. "You were right, okay?"

"Ohh," she smiles, sitting down. "That was good. One more time?"

"Don't push it."

"And what exactly was I right about?"

"Come closer and I'll tell you."

Against her better judgement, she leans in again.

"Closer," he whispers. She huffs, but complies, until their faces are almost touching.

"I don't remember, okay?" He admits in a whispered rush. "I don't remember my past, or … god, I don't know, or I remember too many pasts! There's days when I certain things were one way, others when I'm sure they were another … there's dreams … memories that contradict each other… and I just … don't …. know … what's real!"

In that moment, in that light, without a smile, without a mask, he seems … sad. Desperate. Lost.

Like a child.

 _A psychotic maniac of a child_ , she tries to remind herself.

But it does no good.

"You have to know some things are real, J."

He smiles then, weakly. "You still shrinking me?"

"No. I mean yes… I mean…. Do you know what's real now? Are we real?"

"Yeah. Yeah, we're real."

She lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding in. "Good. That's good, J. I… listen, I think that's enough for today."

"But Doc, there's one more thing."

"What's tha –"

He cuts her off with a kiss.

It's not the kiss that shocks her. On some level, she knew it was going to happen. No, it's … it's the gentleness. She expected something aggressive, a tongue shoved down her throat, but this … this is soft, almost hesitant, the two of them slowly, slowly, breathing each other in, and he is the first to break away, looking her in the eyes.

"You okay?"

For an answer she kisses him again, cupping her hand on the back of his head, drawing his head down to deepen the kiss –

Until she realizes what she's doing, and pulls back.

"God damn it!"

"You have very soft lips…" He's back to smirking again.

"Shut up! You … you … you shouldn't have kissed me."

"Yeah, I know I wasn't supposed to," he admits happily. "But then, I guess you shouldn't have kissed me back. Sooo, we both do things we're not supposed to do. I guess that means we have something in common! I wonder if there's anything else? Do you by any chance enjoy long walks on the beach and/or wielding machetes?"

"As a matter of fact, I wish I had a machete right now!" She snaps at him.

"See, I knew we had more in common…"

"We have _nothing_ in common!"

"I think we have more in common then you're willing to admit… a clear case of denial…"

"No we don't! I know who I am," she fires back, hoping to anger him, but it doesn't work.

"I know who you are too. You think I call you Harley Quinn as an insult? It's _you_ , it's the you I see, hiding behind everyone else's expectations. And you _want_ me. And I want you, but not like all those other men wanted you – some bubble-headed blond fantasy they want you to fulfill. I want you like…"

"Like what?"

"Like crazy."

She smiles, despite herself, despite everything. "I was fine, you know. I was perfectly fine before you came along."

"You were bored. I know. I was bored too."

"You do manage … to keep thing interesting. I … I have to go."

"Come back soon, doc. Please," he adds. _Damn._

"It's hot when you beg," she blurts out, and runs for the door before he can come up with a response, the sound of his laughter echoing in her ears.


	8. Chapter 8

This Vow Part Eight

 _Surrender_

 _Harleen's hands are always awkward along the keys at first – she has to remind herself of all the positions, and to sit up straight – she has to concentrate. Not like her father, whose hands always seem to fly over the keys, the scales coming as naturally as breathing, making music like oxygen, swimming through song. Still, although she's rusty, she finds it comes back to her rather quickly, and Pam is duly impressed. There had been no getting out of demonstrating her abilities, meager as they are; they had been window-shopping, and she had reacted so enthusiastically to the sight of the piano that Pam had demanded a little impromptu concert. She pauses now, and looks up at her "roommate" hopefully, wanting her approval, as usual._

 _The red lips quirk up in a smile. "Not bad," Pam says, and Harley beams. Her beautiful hair dancing like flames, Pam gracefully sits down next to her at the bench. "But I prefer something more like…" And she begins to play a classical piece with relative ease._

" _You didn't tell me you played too," Harleen says._

" _I guess it never came up."_

" _Is this the part where I say something cheesy about us making beautiful music together?"_

 _Pam smiles coyly. If they were alone right now, Harleen thinks, instead of in this pretentious clothing store, she would be leaning in._

" _I guess it is."_

 _They leave quickly, abandoning the things they can't have for the ones that they can._

*Session Six*

"Hi, doc. Good to see you again."

She expects a smirk from him, given what happened last time they were in session, but there's no smugness, no triumphant demeanor, just a warm, almost human smile. Like he's just simply, genuinely glad to see her again.

If it's a manipulation, it's a damn good one.

Harleen cannot stop herself from smiling. "Hello, Mr. J." She's not quite sure how to continue. Should she pretend nothing unprofessional has happened between them? She doubts he'd go along with that. Still, she can't think of what else to do…

"Did you miss me as much as I missed you?"

"Now Mr. J, that's not …"

"Appropriate? 'Cause I gotta tell ya, I think you and I are way past appropriate, Harley. We've moved far beyond pleasantries at this point. Or do you give all your clients smooches?"

" _You_ kissed me!"

"Uh-uh. And you kissed me back." He's grinning now, all mischief and glee. It's hard to be angry with him when he's like this. "I was there. It was fun. I told you I'd show you how to have fun one day!"

"Mr. J, I don't know if I'm on board for your particular brand of fun. I've seen what it entails…"

"What? Harmless little kisses?"

"Mayhem, murder…"

"We-elll, you know, it's like they say, if you're going to make an omelet, you have to break a few bodies…"

A mad giggle rises in her throat, and bubbles out past her lips before she can stop it. "I don't think that's how it goes."

"Maybe not, but hah! Got you to laugh! That's a first."

"So now you've got power over me?"

"Oh Harley, it's not like that. I just thought you could use some laughter in your life."

"Maybe I can… but it's a little concerning when the source of that laughter is an amoral psychopath."

"An immoral psychopath, huh? Well, I've been called worse…"

"Not immoral. Amoral."

"What's the difference?"

She pauses a moment, worried that he's mocking her, but he actually seems sincere in his question, for once.

"Immoral means you have morals, they're just screwed up, and you have a twisted moral code. For instance, an immoral person might think it's okay to kill someone for insulting them, whereas a truly moral person would avoid taking a life at all costs."

"Huh." He looks vaguely bored now.

"They are some exceptions of course," Harleen plows on despite his apparent disinterest. "A moral person might kill to defend themselves, or save others, or in time of war."

He rolls his eyes. "In other words, even the 'good guys' have a loophole."

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it. But the point is, an amoral person is entirely different."

"How so?"

"An amoral person doesn't have a moral code, screwed up or otherwise. An amoral person doesn't care or stop to think about if something is right or wrong. Like you … I've seen from the footage that there are times when you've killed indiscriminately, and other times when you've let people go and even compensated them for their trouble. There doesn't appear to be any rhyme or reason to it, you just … do what you feel like it, in the moment. You don't worry about whether it's right or wrong. You just … do a you please."

The Joker grins, pleased with her explanation. "You gotta admit doc, it's not a bad way to live."

Harleen takes a deep breath. "I will concede, it has … a certain appeal. But unlike you, I have to function in a large society…"

"Oh, and why should you? Larger society's boring. Come to the dark side, we have cookies."

Harleen giggles despite herself, and Joker laughs delightedly.

"There, you see? I knew you had a sense of humor, just waiting to come out…"

"You think you've got me wrapped around your little finger now, don't you, Mr. J?" She finds herself leaning in, moving closer to him, not caring that she shouldn't, not even particularly caring if he's blatantly manipulating her, because it feels good. _He_ feels good. Everything about him, to his words to his demeanor to his touch to his kiss, makes her feel happier and more alive than she's felt in years. She's starting not to care so much about being played.

"Oh, I think it's the other way around, my sweet Harley Quinn. You know I'd do anything for you…"

"I know no such thing. Just because I'm smitten, doesn't mean I'm stupid…"

"Ooh, you're smitten? Really?"

"Don't gloat."

"Don't worry. I'm smitten too."

When their lips meet, Harleen has to keep herself from lunging across the table at him. It takes them much, much longer to separate than before.

"Untie me," the Joker demands, when they finally come up for air. "Untie me so I can touch you."

Harleen laughs, and taps him playfully on the nose. "Sorry Puddin', but I'm not quite that smitten … yet."

The Joker sighs. "What if I begged again?"

"Tempting, but no. I like you, but I like living more."

"Aww come on, you know I won't hurt you…"

"Do I?"

"…Besides, I think we've established you could kick my ass if you wanted to… which is just … _so_ hot…"

Harleen shakes her head, blushing. "This isn't getting us anywhere…"

"Wait! What if I use my feminine wiles?" He leans in and bats his eyelashes. Harleen guffaws, letting her laughter come on in full force now.

"Your wiles are feminine?"

"Oops! I guess I meant masculine wiles..." But he's laughing too, and it's only after she's wiped the tears of mirth from her eyes that she seems him again clearly, looking very serious all of the sudden.

"When are you going to let me out, doc?" Strangely, it doesn't seem like a threat or a demand, but a serious question. It's as if he's genuinely curious as to when she'll give in to the inevitable.

She answers as honestly as she can. "I don't know."

"And when are you going to let yourself out, doc?" His voice is softer now, more intense.

"I don't know that either," she whispers.

"Mm. Better be soon. You can't keep all that energy, all that life, bottled up inside you forever…"

"I'm plenty alive now, J. I'd like to stay that way."

"I'd never hurt you."

"So you say. And maybe you even mean it … at least, for right now. But that's the only way you can mean things, isn't it? In the moment …transience is your only constant…"

"Now that's not fair! I'll have you know I'm perfectly capable of long-term commitments –"

"Your obsession with Batman doesn't count –"

"Doesn't it? Batsy and I have been doing our little dance for years … just imagine how much longer I could dance with someone who actually enjoys and appreciates my company…"

"When did I say I enjoyed your company?"

"About the same time you planted a big ol' smooch on me, doc. Come one, we're way past the point of denial here…"

"You think you've got me all figured out?"

"About as much as you've got me figured out, my Harley Quinn. Which is to say, I'm learning, and I can't wait to learn more. I'd rather do it outside the confines of the psych ward though. And I think you would too."

His conspiratorial grin is almost enough to make her comply, but in the end, she still has a semblance of sanity left. He seems to recognize that – for the moment, at least – he's fighting a losing battle.

"You're not going to spring me, are you, doc?"

"Mm, not today at least. Sorry, Mr. J. Are you angry with me?"

"Oh honey, you know I can't stay mad at you." His grin is equal parts merriment and menace.

"Good, I didn't want to leave things on a bad note."

"Leave? Is our time up again already?"

"I'm afraid so." Harleen starts to stand up and gather her things. She hates to leave, but she needs to go. Being around him is like being intoxicated, and she needs to sober up, take stock of the effect he's having on her, come down to earth, come back to her senses...

"Don't I get a kiss goodbye?"

As she leans down and presses her lips to his once more, she can't help but imagine what his arms would feel like around her, what his body would feel like pressed up against hers, surrounded by him, engulfed by him, his scent, his presence, his…

Harleen pulls away reluctantly, and he growls, frustrated at the loss of contact.

"You're driving me crazy, Harley. You keep making me hungry for you, but all you give me is a little taste here, a little nibble there..."

"Maybe it's because I'm afraid if I give anymore, you're going to eat me alive."

He laughs. "Oh Harley, come on now … I'm an equal opportunity predator. You know very well we'll spend the rest of our lives devouring each other."

Harleen shivers, a combination of thrill and dread running down her spine. In some primal part of herself, the truth of his words hit her at her core. Deep within, she knows what will happen. They are as inexorable as the sea.

But she's not ready to accept that consciously yet.

"Until next time, puddin'." On impulse, she steals one last kiss, and then turns and makes a mad dash for the door, running back to a reality which is becoming dimmer and dimmer, because more and more, it feels like the only real and meaningful things in her life happen right here, in the confines of this bright little room.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Hey everyone, I'm back! I missed you all so much … look, I'm really sorry I haven't update in such a long time. I just got really busy with school. However, I have a little time between now and when my summer class starts and I will try and update as often as possible. Hope y'all are still on board for the ride!

 _Surrender_

 _It happens when she is ready to fall into the abyss – as if, in death, this is his one final gift to her, reaching from the grave to pull her back to the sane, the real. She's in that pleasant, not-quite-awake state in which you are vaguely aware of your physical surroundings but are still trying to cling to threads of dreams in which being able to fly somehow makes a bizarre kind of sense. Of course, her dreams feature something even more impossible these days – or rather,_ someone _. She doesn't know which she should feel guiltier about: the contents of her dreams, which are rapidly becoming X-rated (though she does have an annoying habit of waking up just before things really get good) or her real-life actions, which are so far beyond the bounds of professionalism that she knows she's driving right into crazy-town. She's been trying very hard to make herself care, to hold herself accountable, but all she can manage is a vague sort of guilt, a dim awareness of her actions being inappropriate. It's like every other rational feeling takes a backseat to this heady, thrilling glee. If she could just stay here for a moment, in her dreams, in a place without the consequences of reality, in a place where she and her Mr. J can –_

 _The sharp sound of the telephone ringing jolts her fully awake. Groaning, she utters a curse. She was so close … in more ways than one. Reality is increasingly seeming like an intrusion, filled with dull paperwork and uninteresting patients, peppered by sometimes-stimulating conversations with Joan, but otherwise counting the tedious minutes until her next session with –_

 _Harleen stumbles gracelessly out of bed, still bleary-eyed, gropes for the phone, and answers in a voice still thick with sleep._ "Hello?"

 _What she hears on the other end of the phone brings her back to reality – and then sends that reality crashing down._

 _For much as it seems like it right now, the Joker is not the only man in her life who matters._

*Session Nine*

For perhaps the first time, she doesn't want to see him.

She just … she just can't face him, not today. Joan was right, she came back to work too early.

But she insisted she was ready, even argued with Dr. Arkham about it, and now she has to do her job.

She clears her throat. "Hello again, Mr. J."

Silence.

Oh great. She's gone for a few weeks, and there goes all the progress (if you can call it that) she's made. No more hints about himself, no more flashes of humanity, no more flirtation, no more laughter…

She'll lose him forever now…

"Not talking to me?" She keeps her voice from breaking, but only just. She can feel her Brooklyn accent coming out, like it does when she's upset. "Well, that's fine. I get paid either way."

She picks up the file and begins to read. The minutes tick away, her vision blurs… god, she needs to get more sleep…

"You left." His tone is unmistakably accusatory.

Oh, of course that's it. He pissed that he wasn't the center of her universe for a few weeks.

"Yeah, and now I'm back."

"No one would tell me where you went, or why."

"Well, of course not." She sighs. "I had some personal business to attend to." She clears her throat. "Now, I understand that in your sessions with Dr. Leland, you were uncommunicative, so I guess we can start from where we left off. We were talking about these multiple pasts you've created for yourself –"

"Where'd you go, doc?"

"We're not discussing that. Now –"

"Oh, I know what it is. Your boyfriend's jealous you've been spending so much time with me."

Harley froze. Any other day she could have handled it, but today … she told herself to get up, walk out the door.

But she didn't.

Instead, she put her pen down, closed her file, took her glasses off, and rubbed her face tiredly.

"Look," she said, "I get that this whole little flirtation thing we do is amusing to you, and I get that you're figuring out a way to use me." This was her realistic nature reasserting itself, even as he tried to interrupt. "No, no, I get that, okay? But I have had a really shitty few weeks, and I have to say that right now, Mr. J, your particular brand of charm and humor is not amusing."

She half-expected him to be mad – she hadn't spoken to him that way in a long time – and if fact, she kind of welcomed his rage. She needed to yell at somebody, and while a psychotic clown would not have been the wisest choice for this, since when had she been known for making sensible choices?

Not since she had been under _his_ wing …

But he doesn't get mad.

He actually seems … concerned.

"Harley, what's wrong?"

She tells herself that sociopaths don't feel things like this: concern, empathy, sympathy. She tells herself that sociopaths are charming and highly adept at mimicking these types of emotions, but they can't actually feel them.

She tells herself all that, but it does no good.

So she breaks down, crying. She has not been able to do so for the longest time. She's longed for the relief of it, knowing even pain would be better than this dull, hollow ache where her heart used to be…

In between sobs, she tells him that Eric, her mentor, has died, and that she was out of town a few weeks because she was attending his funeral.

"Did you love him?" The Joker asks, seeming strangely serious for once.

"Yeah, of course, but … not like that. He was like … like a dad, you know? Someone who taught me, someone who had my back, someone who always …" She takes a breath, trying to compose herself. "It's not fair," she continues, with more bitterness than sorrow in her voice. "Why do people like my father and Eric die and people like my stepfather are still alive somewhere? Why can't the right people die for once?"

His voice is like silk. "That can be arranged."

She sniffles. "Not funny."

"For once, I wasn't joking."

When she looks up, she is greeted by his enigmatic grin. Despite it, she wonders just what exactly he could arrange, even from behind the bars of Arkham Asylum…

But what frightens her is not what he can do. What frightens her is that the thought of what he could do excites her.

She wipes her eyes. "Don't tease me. Not now."

"I wasn't. I'm sorry about your friend, Harley. It must be hard when someone that you care about dies. Not that I would know."

Harley leans in then. "You wouldn't? You know, sometimes I think you're not as sociopathic as your criminal activities would seem to indicate."

"Aww, that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about me." She does laugh at that, weakly. She leans further him and lets him kiss her, not caring if he tastes her tears. He has seen her professional and cool, he has seen her angry and aggressive, he has seen her flirtatious and passionate, and now he has seen her break down and cry…

She wonders if he will ever return the favor. She wonders if she will ever see him cry, ever taste his tears, glimpse his humanity, and comfort him in his hour of need.

"This is very unprofessional," she sniffles as he wipes away a tear.

"I won't tell if you won't. Professional's boring anyway."

"Yeah. And we're many things, but never boring."

"Many things?" He cocks his head, intrigued.

"Things I haven't quite worked out yet," she tells him.

"I can help you work them out…"

"Oh, I just bet you can, puddin'. But I'd like to pull myself together before you break me down."

"I'd never break you down. I'd set you free."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She leans in for more kisses, eager to lose herself in his touch, eager for a distraction from loss and grief. Eric's death grounded her back in reality, but it also reinforced how unpleasant, arbitrary, and unfair reality can be. The Joke's mind, his world, is infinitely more entertaining. Can she blamed for returning to it so quickly, for wanting to immerse herself in it so completely?

"Puddin'… I think our time is up."

"Already?" A sigh, a roll of the shoulders, his eyes closed. Somehow, he manages to make his movements graceful, even in the confines of a strait jacket. For one thrilling moment, she imagines herself removing the restraints, freeing him, letting him hold her, embrace her…

Then reality tugs back at her again, and the moment passes.

"Can't you find a way to make these sessions longer?"

"I'll work on that?" Why not? She's sure she can justify it somehow…

"Hurry back, Harley. Promise."

"I promise, puddin'." She cups his face briefly and kisses him again. Reality, fantasy. Personal, professional. The lines are way beyond blurring … and she finds that she doesn't care. Eric is gone. She has no one else left.

He is now what he was perhaps always destined to become: her everything.


	10. Chapter 10

This Vow Part Ten

Author's Note: A little mistake in the previous update: that should have been session seven.

 _Surrender_

 _Their dance begins in darkness._

 _Even so, she is steady, and she is sure. She reaches for his hand, and finds it easily. His other hand is on the small of her back, guiding her, leading her, and she puts her arm around his shoulder, grinning madly, and ready to follow in his footsteps._

 _He's dressed just like his old pictures in the papers, a tux, and bow tie, crisps, cleans lines, the stark black and white in contrast with his red lips, blue eyes, and green hair. He is grinning his manic grin, and she knows an answering smile is stretched from ear-to-ear on her own face. When he starts laughing, she does too; his mad glee is infectious, as always. Eventually, she realizes she is also dressed for the occasion: red and black in diamond patterns, the color and shape of a jester's costume. Her skin is pale like his, but more than that, she can feel his energy, their energy, crackling between them. They are laughing, they are dancing, and …_

 _And the floor is sticky._

Don't look down _, says a voice in her head._

Don't look down _, says the music only they can hear._

Don't look down _, says the Joker, her mister J, her puddin', her everything, and laughs until it sounds like screaming._

Red _, she thinks,_ I'm wearing red. The blood won't show. Just dance around the bodies, just dance around the bodies, just dance around the bodies, just look at him forever, and never look down.

*Session Eight*

"I have a present for you."

Harley feels her heart thud in her chest. She tells herself she's sickened, she's scared, wondering what he has done for her, knowing it can't be good. But deep down, underneath her tired morals, she knows the true reason why her pulse races and why she trembles.

She's excited.

"Oh really?" Still, she arches a brow, doing her best to keep her voice cool and even.

"Mm-hm. Don't pretend you're not excited. You wanna guess what it is?"

"I think I can imagine," she whispers, taking her glasses off and leaning in.

"I certainly hope so." He leans in himself, and begins whispering in her ear. Dark words, describing darker deeds. The way he cut up the body of her stepfather, the way he carved him up like meat and left the pieces out to rot, because we're all just carrion in the end. He tells her of the package that will be waiting on her doorstep, a little memento for her to play with and destroy as she sees fit, a small token of his affection for his beautiful Harley Quinn.

When they pull back from each other, she is crying again.

"Are your horrified?" He asks.

"No," she whispers.

"Digusted?"

"No."

"Guilty?"

"No."

"Sad?"

"Only that I couldn't do it myself."

He smiles, slow and sure. "That's my girl."

When their lips meet again, it is not gentle. There is a hunger, an urgency that Harley has not allowed herself to experience for him, at least not outside of her dreams. If she can just dance around in the dark, if she can just step over the bodies to get to him, she cannot almost pretend it's alright to feel this way.

"I wish I could hold you," he says when they finally break apart.

This time, she does not stop herself. She walks over and tugs impatiently at the bonds of his strait jacket, eventually figuring out how to unfasten him. There is moment, as the garment slithers to the ground and he wriggles himself free, dancing and shaking the blood back into his muscles, laughing as the numbness recedes, looking like the glorious maniac he is, that Harley forgets to be afraid of him, and not just afraid of the version of herself he brings out.

Until his fingers close around her neck. Then, she remembers fear.

He doesn't squeeze. He sweeps his over the hollow of her throat, feeling her pulse coursing there, letting her know that she is vulnerable. She meets his gaze, his smirk, his blue, blue eyes, and feels the terror drain from her, feels herself sway towards him.

She smiles at him, and he brings her in for the kill.

"I had you going," he says between kisses.

"Not for a minute," she whispers, leaning her head back so his lips can trail down her neck.

"Mmm. Harley, come here, come here," he growls, and pulls her in closer so that they are pressed up against each other, as close as they can be, as close as she's dreamed….

She doesn't stop him when he rips of her shirt, doesn't stop him when he pushes her up against the wall, doesn't stop him when he lifts her up, hisses at her to hike up her skirt and "Show me that pretty kitty." She giggles madly, tugging at his patient's garb ineffectually, too giddy and too shaky to do much good. This is madness, madness, but she doesn't care, all she can do is let out a little scream of delight, because they are pure insanity, pure anarchy, pure chaos, pure –

"Did you hear that? He's killing her in there!"

"Dr. Quinzel? Are you alright?!"

The voices of the guards bring her crashing back down to reality – as does the sound of the door unlocking. The Joker, of course, just laughs, not caring if they are literally caught with their pants down, but crazy as her actions are, his Harley is not quiet there yet, and can only think of the personal and professional mortification to come. "Please," she whispers, "I'll be humiliated."

He gives her a dangerous look. "If I didn't know any better," he tuts, sliding her down from the wall, slipping her shirt back over her shoulders and deftly putting her back together, "I might think you're embarrassed to be seen with me."

His restraint surprises her, as does his consideration for her feelings. How can he be anything but sincere at this point? How can she doubt his insane devotion to her?

The door swings open as they are backing away from each other.

The guards scream at him to get down and then Tazer him, but she can hardly hear, because he's laughing all the while. She fights the mad, inappropriate urge to giggle again too, because really, how can you not? And how narrowly she escaped being found in the ultimate compromising position…

Harleen sinks to the floor as the guards take him, shaking as much from thwarted desire as anything else. The minutes tick by, and she feels strangely paralyzed. She puts her head in her hands, trying to drown out of the sounds of them beating him, hoping to wake up from this nightmare…

When she feels an arm around her, she nearly jumps out of her skin.

"Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

"Joan!" Relief floods her instantly. "I … I'm … I'm alright …"

She stumbles as Joan helps her to her feet. For a little while, she lets her mind go blissfully blank, listening to Joan mutter soothing words, letting the other woman half-carry her out of the room, but eventually, she has to focus on what the other woman is saying.

"The facility's on lockdown, and they're trying to get him sedated…"

"The meds never work…" Harley mumbles.

"Well they seem to be this time, or else he's just playing dead because he's tired of getting beat down…" The guilt comes sharply upon her then. "Harleen, how did he slip his restraints…"

"I …. I don't know."

"Well, Arkham wants to talk to you, of course. Don't worry, I won't let you face him alone." She's led Harleen to the bathroom. "You need to try and pull yourself together, splash some water on your face or something … do you want me to go in with you?"

Harleen takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. "Actually I … could you get my glasses? We … I … left them in the room and … I'm blind as a bat without them." She gives a shrill little laugh at her own private joke, but if Joan finds this strange, she doesn't say anything. She simply agrees, squeezes Harleen's shoulder, and goes off to retrieve the eye wear, once she is convinced her friend is somewhat steady on her feet.

In the bathroom, Harleen practically puts her head under the faucet and begins giggling madly all over again. She slaps herself and giggles some more, almost hoping the hysterical laughter will not subside. But eventually it does. She is confronted with her own image in the mirror, a wet, wild-eyed blonde, her cheeks flushed, her hair in disarray.

 _My hair. He ran his fingers through it as we kissed._ Hastily, she runs her fingers through the wayward tresses, smoothing things down, breathing deeply, trying to slow her erratic pulse. She told a bit of a fib to Joan; her vision isn't really that bad without her glasses, but she needed a moment alone from her well-meaning friend.

"What the hell am I gonna do?"

It doesn't seem remotely funny anymore. What had she been thinking? Arkham, he'll ask the same question Joan did – how did the Joker get out of his straitjacket? – and he won't be as trusting as Joan was. Yes, the Joker escaping or nearly escaping is a regular occurrence – but Arkham will be looking for someone to blame, as he always does, and this time, he might actually blame the right person…

She can't let him suspect her. She can't let him suspect that she's fallen for her patient. She'll be fired, and then she'll never see him again, her Mr. J., her everything, and Arkham will leak it to the papers, and she'll be a laughingstock, a punchline, a disgrace…

"Oh puddin'…what the hell are _we_ gonna do?"


	11. Chapter 11

This Vow Part Eleven

 _Surrender becomes_

 _The liquid burns her skin. When she tries to breathe, she swallows it, and it burns her lungs._

Good, _she thinks,_ Let it burn.

 _Her body is failing, her vision blurring…_ I should have learned to swim, _she thinks, and she wonders if it will be her last thought._

 _Then she sees him reaching for her._

 _It isn't until he breathes the air back into her lungs that she knows she's not hallucinating, and she's alive. Rather, she is reborn – is his image and her own, stripped of all pretense, all conscience, all constraints, dangerous, deadly, insane, made to adore and to be adored by the pale man who reaches for her, cradles her, and kisses her again. Their clothes are melting off, colors swirling in the pool of chemicals, colors she will later realize have stained the ends of her hair, an accidental style that she instantly loves. The liquid is still stinging, but she doesn't care, and neither does he. Her Mr. J., her puddin', the one she lives and dies for, is laughing, laughing, and she knows why. He's laughing at himself. He thought he could walk away from her, discard her after she's served her purpose, assuming that he was incapable of forming any kind of human attachments, but he was wrong, wrong, wrong. She has broken through to the heart of him, a black twisted heart to be sure, and broken, but still beating, and now beating in time with her own, a mad rhythm, and wild dance that only the two of them know the steps to._

 _She laughs with him as they cling to each other._

I'm an idea, a state of mind, _he had told her earlier, the first time he tried to leave her._ I am not someone who is … loved. _As if he was unfathomable, incapable of the giving and receiving of such tender feelings._

Oh J, _she thinks._ Psychotic as you are, you're still human after all.

*Session Nine*

"What the _hell_ happened, Quinzel?"

He doesn't even ask if she's hurt, if she's okay. If she weren't so completely guilty, she might be indignant. As it is, she simply swallows, nervously.

For once, Arkham isn't looking at her tits.

For once, she kind of wishes he was.

"Isn't it obvious?" Joan pipes up beside her, and she feels a wave of gratitude wash over her. "The Joker slipped his restraints and attacked her! Why are you interrogating her like some kind of criminal when _he's_ the one who –"

"Those restraints were made for him!" Arkham bellows, standing up. "They were a gift from the Wayne Corporation, specifically designed to hold him! He couldn't have slipped them … unless he had help."

He glares at Harleen, and she trembles. He's always been such a clod, he has to choose _now_ to be smart?

But Joan is used to Arkham's temper. She takes Harleen's hand and squeezes it, reassuringly. "And you know that how?" She challenges him. "Because Wayne told you so? Well, you'll forgive me if I don't trust that man. Just because everyone else in this town worships him and accepts whatever he says as gospel, doesn't mean we should!"

For a moment, Arkham looks even more enraged, sputtering something at Joan, but then he gets … quiet. And almost eerily calm.

And then, Harleen really begins to be afraid.

"I need to talk to Dr. Quinzel alone."

Joan's grip on her hand tightens. "That's not going to happen."

"Joan, you can walk out of here right now and let me talk with her, or you can walk out of here right now and pack up your office."

"You can't threaten –"

"It's okay," Harleen whispers. She can't let her friend do this. She can't let Joan lose her job defending her against something she is actually responsible for doing. "Joan, really, it's okay."

Joan hesitates, but in the end, she leaves them alone. Harleen tries to nerve herself as Arkham leans in, looking her straight in the eyes.

"I know you took those restraints off him," he whispers, "So here's what going to happen. I am going to let you keep your job, and your precious 'patient.' I don't care if you fuck him every day in that therapy room and abort a litter of his albino babies, you damn whore." She draws in a breath sharply, flushing crimson, angry, scared, but unable to deny it. "In exchange, you are going to sign off on a treatment Joan would never agree when he was on her caseload – shock therapy."

"W-what? No! That's barbaric! It won't help –"

"It'll make him more docile, which you well know! And we can't do it unless two doctors sign off on it."

"I won't hurt him!" She fairly screams. But Arkham is not to be deterred, and he gets his face right up in hers.

"Oh yes you will," he hisses. "You will help me hurt him, or I'll have the guards hurt him worse. You think he took a beating now? I'll have them put him in traction! Or hell, maybe I'll just let them beat him to death," he growls, and she realizes with horror that he is completely serious. "And I'll have you drummed out, drummed out of this facility and this profession, and I'll make sure to leak all the lurid details to the papers. He'll be dead, and you'll be humiliated. Unless you do what I say, and sign."

The emotions that roil inside her will have their outlet, one day. The impotent rage, the fear, the sorrow that she will have an inevitable hand in his suffering … they will be unleashed, terrible in their magnitude and unending in their endurance. But now, all she can do is slump down, defeated, and agree to sign.

Once she's done, he takes the pen from her hand, and nods curtly. "Good. You don't have to be here when I administer the treatment. Go home."

"No," she whispers. She stops her voice from shaking. "I want to witness it. If he's going to be put through this, I'm not going to pretend you're the only one responsible."

Arkham laughs in her face. "You deluded little bitch. He'll kill you for it!"

This time, it's Harley's turn to lean in and hiss at him. "Let him try. I might even deserve it. But I'm going to face what I'm doing to him and I'm not going to hide. I'm not a coward like you."

Arkham reels back, and for a moment, she thinks he's going to hit her. For a moment, she almost wants him to.

 _Give me a reason, you bastard. Just give me a reason._

"Meet me in thirty minutes," he snaps, and then sneers. "It'll give you some time to make yourself look pretty for him, Harleen."

He leaves before she can lunge at him.

"Harley," she whispers back, fiercely, in the dark. "My name is Harley. Harley Quinn. And one day, I'm going to make sure you remember it."

Later, she will stand beside Arkham as he smugly explains to the Joker what is happening. She will feel the pain and guilt clench in her gut like a vise at the look of betrayal on her puddin's face, wishing she could have a moment, just a moment to explain, to show him how, awful as this is, it is the lesser of two evils for them both. Later, she will be apologizing tearfully in their latest session, trying to justify herself, promising anything and everything if only he won't hate her, if only he will forgive her, if only she can be his sweet Harley Quinn once more. Later, she'll be smuggling in weapons, and watching people get mowed down by him and his men, and finally, she'll be in the place he is now, telling him it's okay, it's alright, she can take it.

But now, she's standing beside a monster, one who can't use insanity as an excuse for his cruelty and callousness, and watching a man, a brilliant and beautiful one, and wounded and wonderful one, getting his already scrambled mind zapped by electricity. Electro-shock is only ever done anymore in extreme cases, and even then, it's not done like this, with no muscle relaxants administered, no restraints in place, leaving the patient flailing, in danger of bruising limbs and breaking bones. She cries freely, tasting her own tears just as he once did, swallowing her rage and shedding her devotion to the world of sanity, mercy, and authority.

Most would say that Harley Quinn was "born" in a vat of chemicals, fashioned by the Joker to be his puppet and his plaything, made in his image, like when God created man.

But Harley knows she is born right here, standing beside him and having to watch him suffer, his laughter turning into screams, back to laughter, and into screams again, so many times she can no longer distinguish which is which.

She makes herself, here, in the ashes of her morality, in the fire of her devotion to him, and she embraces who she truly is at last.

Harley Quinn.

And God help those who get in her way.


	12. Chapter 12

This Vow Part Twelve

 _Surrender Becomes Power_

 _It's all over in a flash – the car dives into the water, and he's gone. He put a special ejector seat in years ago, but only on his side… because up until_ her _, he never really cared about whoever was riding shotgun. Everything happens before either of them can react. One minute they are laughing with glee, trying to get Bats off their car, and the next minute, they're plunging into the water, their mad giggling having barely died down, the engine roaring and the water rushing in almost too loud for him to hear what she screams – but he hears it, and in the weeks to come, when the search for his Harley Quinn goes from leisurely –_ "Shell turn up at Arkham, she always does." _– to frantic, her last words will echo in his ears like a torturous mantra, driving him crazier than he already is._

 _I can't swim!_

 _I can't swim!_

 _I can't swim!_

 _After all the things she's done, all the things he's taught her to do, all the beautiful atrocities they've committed together, how is it she never learned to swim?_

*Session Nine: Last Session*

After the electroshock, he is pleased to see she is appropriately tearful. There will be no more shock treatments for him, in any case, but that's not actually Harley's doing. Dr. Leland – good old Joanie, always a sucker for honor, even when it comes to the likes of him! – has seen to that, has threatened to report Arkham to the Board, and for once, she has gotten him to back down.

If Harley weren't so damn beguiling, he might have considered Joanie dear as a likely target for recruitment. Of course, it would take a lot more work to pull off something like that with Joan than with his Harley, who was already a heartbeat away from glorious madness and anarchy before he waltzed in…

Harley.

Harley.

 _Harley_ …

He brushes aside that strange, trembly feeling she sometimes seems to inspire in him and accepts her humble apologies as his due, relishing having his sweet little psycho in his complete and utter control. He allows her to dry her tears, and even gives her a kiss for her trouble.

"I brought you a kitty," she says, her manner becoming childlike, endearing, and presents him with the plush toy.

"So thoughtful… but we both know that's not the pretty kitty I want," he says, and they share a private laugh.

"Dr. Quinzel… you know I live for these moments with you."

"Harley," she corrects him, just like he wants. "Harley Quinn."

He smiles. "I know. There is something you could do for me."

"Sure, I mean, anything, yeah."

He grins at her eagerness.

"I need a machine gun."

She looks nonplussed. "A machine gun?"

"Or twenty."

"Oh well, sure," she says sarcastically. "I'll just go to the machine gun store and pick up some."

He laughs. Oh, how he loves her fire.

 _Maybe he should keep her …_

"You're a clever girl. I'm sure you can figure something out." But still, for all her talents, he knows she's going to need a bit more help than that, so he gives her the contact information for Johnny Frost, his number one guy, and she scribbles it down on the pad where she still pretends to do doctorly things like writing notes. There's no hesitation in her anymore, no half-hearted moral protestations about the slaughter and destruction she knows will stem from her fulfilling his request, and it is then that he realizes her transformation is complete. The acid bath, which will come later, is just the icing on this very delectable little cake. His Harley is here, right before him, making plans to aid and abet him as calmly and someone would write down their grocery list.

He doesn't know it yet, but he will need her for more than just this, his latest escape.

He doesn't know it yet, but he will want her as more than just this, a toy he fancies he's fashioned for himself to play with and discard when he sees fit.

He doesn't know it yet, only focusing on the pleasure of becoming her everything, too frightened and too crazy to see that she will become his everything as well. 

*The Escape*

"Get off me!" Harley snarls. She's strong, but she's been sedated, and Johnny can handle her at last. He is calm and cool and collected and professional – everything the Joker is not. When she first met him, she was amused by the contrast, having expected that the people her puddin' surrounded himself with would be just as colorful as he was. In time, she will learn that this is true, for the most part, but somebody has to tend to the practical matters of running a criminal empire, and that's where Johnny comes in. In time, they will come to appreciate each other, Joker's girl and his right-hand man. They both, in their ways, make sure that Mr. J stays on the (mostly) functional side of crazy. They both tether and steady him and connect him to his humanity, such as it is.

But all that comes later. Right now, Harley wants to spit in his face.

When she is strapped in, Joker's face appears above her, manic, gleeful, and angry. She was a fool to think she had been forgiven when she gave him that stupid toy earlier. She knows this is payback, this is punishment, punishment for watching him suffer. She knows, but she pleads all the same, points out that she helped him, because for the first time in a long time, she is afraid. Because he's beautiful, but he's crazy, and she'd told him once, when they began, that while she believed he meant what he said in the moment, his emotions can shift on a dime. He is a mercurial maniac, brilliant and cruel, charming and dangerous, and she loves him with everything she has, but that does not blind her to the reality of what he is capable of. And she knows that he is quite capable of killing her.

"I can take it," she tells him, letting him know that it's okay, that she understands, that even if he kills her tonight she can't hate him, because he's made her feel happier and more alive than she has in years.

She sees the shine of pride in his eyes and knows she has not disappointed him. "You can take it, huh?"

"I can take it."

He leans in for a kiss before he hits the juice. "That's my girl."

She can't describe what the shocks feel like, because she doesn't remember. The next few minutes – the next few hours, really – are all ... blurry. She knows, in what is left in the rational part of her brain, that her disorientation is normal, that short-term memory loss is among one of the side effects of electroshock therapy, and so is this giddy, almost drunken feeling she soon comes to experience, as her vision clears and her beloved puddin's face comes back into view.

He grins down at her. Having settled the score by shocking her, all traces of his anger are now gone.

"Well hi there," he grins, "And how are we feeling?"

She giggles. "A-OK, Mr. J!" She attempts a salute, but can't quite get her hand in the right place. He did the shocks for much less time than Arkham did. If there was any pain, anything close to what he experienced, she can't recall it.

"Johnny, you can unstrap her now."

Johnny looks wary but still complies. As soon as she's free, she attempts to sit up, to move off the table, but topples over and nearly hits the floor, only Joker catches her. She giggles again as he scoops her up, shouting "Woopsie!" and then squealing in delight as he holds her close.

"You're kinda loopy, aren't ya?" He asks her, sounded somewhere between amused and concerned, and when she giggles again and attempts to nod her head in agreement, he adds, "I like it!"

"Boss…" Johnny says softly. The Joker frowns at the interruption, but seems to take his meaning.

"Okay boys, we better pack up!" He swings Harley around, causing another squeal of glee. "But first, me and the little lady have some … loose ends to tie up."

They have Arkham in one of the patient rooms, crumpled in a corner. He's small and sweating and scared. Looking back, Harley supposes she could blame what happens next on any number of things – coming down off the shocks, Joker's goading, her own confused mental state – but in the end, it's her choice, and her dark pleasure, and she doesn't regret it for a minute.

"I'm sorry, baby," the Joker purrs, still holding her in his arms. "I thought we'd have time to play with him for a bit, but we're behind schedule as it is, so we're going to have to do this fast rather than slow, but still …"

She's still pretty unsteady, so he has to help her with the gun. He positions her hand, her fingers, places them carefully on the trigger. Harley's giggling while he does this, but looking into Arkham's cowardly, bloodshot eyes, she stills, becomes serious. She's aware of the gravity of what she's about to do.

"Just a little squeeze …" The Joker whispers.

For a moment, in Arkham, she seems them all. The stepfather who pawed at her, the boys at school that cat-called her, every male professor that told her she was too pretty to be a doctor, every colleague that ever looked down his nose at her and stared straight at her tits, and for a moment, her anger overwhelms her crazy, and she is rational, sober, and completely in control.

"I hate the way you see me," she hisses, and fires the gun.

It's a much more merciful death than he deserves.

Afterwards, he coos at her, kisses her, caresses her. "Good girl."

Much as she enjoys his touch and his praise, she needs him to understand something: "I didn't do it for you."

When he looks at her then, it's his fist hint that while he is her beloved, he is not her creator. While her allegiance to him will always be unquestionable, she is not someone he can ever completely control.

Possibly, this frightens him, which is why he gives her no reply and simply carries her out of the room.

Many –most –o f the Arkham staff are dead, shot down in a hail of bullets, which is rather more merciful a death than one by way of his specially-made toxins. They will be other times when she gets to see him unleash chemical warfare, so to speak, but as he will explain later, he was "feeling a hankering for old-fashioned mayhem" that day and decided to go with the guns. It's unclear which option would have done more damage in the end, or if both would have been equally deadly. Suffice it to say, the guns did damage enough.

The point being, few of Arkham's employees were spared the Joker's wrath, but there was one notable distinction.

They come across her on her way out. Even if her altered state, Harley is relieved to see that she appears relatively unscathed, more disheveled and frightened than bloody.

"Harleen," she gasps, "What did he do to you?"

"It's Harley," the Joker corrects her, "And I set her free! Didn't I, baby?"

"You sure did, puddin'!" Harley giggles again, but her laughter stops abruptly when Joker points the gun at Joan.

"Don't!"

"Oh?" He turns his icy blue eyes on her. "And why not?"

Harley swallows. It's the first time she's directly challenged him since officially joining his gang, but it won't be the last. "She … she … she was good to you," She stammers. "She was the one who stopped Arkham from doing more shocks. I mean, okay, no one can love you like I do, and I don't think Joan even _likes_ you, but she's …. She's always treated you right. She's always been _fair._ She's the only one in this place that's got an ounce of integrity, including me. She doesn't deserve to die."

The Joker's grin fades, and he looks serious for once – serious, and satisfied with her answer. "You're right," he says, lowering his gun, and Harley wonders if this was test, and if it was, if she passed or not. "Good old Joanie, always doing the right thing … see how far it gets you?" He laughs. "Not nearly as enticing as doing the _wrong_ thing with me, but then, there's only one girl for that, isn't there?"

"Me!" Harley shouts, and giggles in delight as he kisses her.

Joan looks at her, appropriately enough, like she's gone out of her mind.

"Say bye to Joan now, Harley."

"Bye-Bye, Joanie!" Harley manages a wave as she's carried past the other woman. Many emotions flash across Joan Leland's face as they make their escape – fear, confusion, relief – and Harley can't help but wonder if jealously, if longing for their life of mad love and freedom, is among them.

Some time later, as Arkham Asylum recovers from the Joker's latest and most devastating escape, new workers will be hired, guards and doctors alike, and a much larger proportion of the staff will be female. Old, outdated methods of treatment will be replaced with newer, better, evidence-based protocols. But best of all (at least in Harley's opinion) Joan will be named Interim Chief of Staff at Arkham, and will eventually be permanently given the position.

Whether Harley and Joan sometimes wish for each other's lives will remain up for debate as they continue to encounter each other, no longer as colleges, but still as friends. As Harley delves further into the worlds of madness and chaos with the love of her life, Joan will be drawn deeper in the world of sanitary and order, and both will have things they love in their worlds, and things they could do without it.

But Harley's dive into the acid bath and her rise from it is not the ends of her love story with Mr. J.

It is only the beginning, and their love leads them down and dark an unexpected path, one filled with sorrow and joy and loss, one that leads to blood as red as a robin's wing.

*Author's Note: This is NOT the last chapter, though we are getting close to the end. For the last few installments, we will get into some of the events seen and referenced in both Batman vs Superman and (of course) Suicide Squad, but the focus will remain on Harley and Joker.*


End file.
